Chapter Fifteen Tristan #3
I met his gaze. Held it. “Why? Why are you interested in this client?”
It was a challenge. One I knew he wouldn’t meet cleanly. He hadn’t crossed any lines yet. He wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of an admission that this was all about me. About Razor and me.
“Interest is a mischaracterisation. I don’t care about your client at all.” He stepped closer. Close enough to fill the space between us and stop it being neutral. I could feel his attention like heat on my skin. “I care about variables.”
His gaze travelled then. Unhurried. Assessing. All the way from my bare feet on the rug, up the length of me, over the knot of the towel at my waist, the damp line of skin at my throat, the pulse pounding there. It wasn’t hunger. It was ownership.
I didn’t move. Refused to give him the satisfaction.
“You,” his breath trickled into my ear, “introduced one.”
I stepped back, putting space between us. Claiming it. “And if I don’t take your… guidance?”
Wolfe exhaled, as if disappointed by the necessity of the answer. “Then this becomes untidy.”
“In what way?”
“In the way that requires me to share my concerns with those whose confidence I’m accustomed to holding. About your judgment. Your attachments. Your… direction.”
My throat tightened. “My father.”
“Among others.”
“You’d destroy him.”
“I wouldn’t have to. I would simply stop protecting the version of events he currently enjoys.
Let him see you as you are. Emotionally compromised.
Reckless. And entangled with things and people so below your station it’s quite degrading.
” Wolfe tilted his head. “And in that scenario, it wouldn’t be me who causes the damage. It would be you.”
Rage flared, hot and instinctive, but Wolfe stepped back before it could find purchase.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing about him being here, anyway.
He existed too far upstream. Occupied rooms I couldn’t enter and conversations that never made the minutes.
He spoke to people whose influence didn’t come with letterheads or accountability.
If I called the police, it would become a misunderstanding.
If I made a complaint, it would be reframed as poor judgment.
If I told my father, it would be handled quietly, politely, and in a way that ensured Wolfe remained untouched.
I only had to look at Benji Rothwell to know how it didn’t matter what elite men did, they’d still have an invitation to the top table simply because their names weren’t pencilled in, they were carved in stone at birth.
Men like Wolfe didn’t need to deny allegations because nothing ever quite rose to the level of one. Boundaries were blurred until they were deniable. Reputations absorbed the impact and redistributed it downward. And anything I said would sound smaller than his silence.
So all I had was the law.
And even that only worked if I never gave him a reason to turn it against me.
“Your father’s reputation.” Wolfe pulled down his sleeve, cufflinks gleaming.
“The family name. The professional insulation currently shielding your brother. Your sister-in-law. Her charitable assets. Her unborn child. Even your sister’s prospects.
None of those are separate from the choices you have made.
Consequences have a way of travelling, Mr Hale-Fitzroy. ”
I felt the cold recognition of how small the margin really was then, the narrow space where the law still protected me, and how easily it could be erased by nothing more than a change in how I was seen.
I’d just told Razor I could fight for him because I had distance.
Weight behind me. A name that opened doors instead of closing them.
But Wolfe could destroy that with one phone call. And suddenly I wouldn’t be insulated.
I’d be implicated.
“You’re threatening me with shame.” I clenched my jaw.
“I’m reminding you how efficiently it spreads.”
“You’re done here.” I nudged my chin towards the door. “Leave.”
“I don’t think we are done.” Wolfe smiled. “But I don’t require your agreement tonight.”
He then picked up his coat and moved towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.
“You’ll do the sensible thing. You always do.
You’ll advise your client as you see fit.
” He opened the door, then glanced back over his shoulder.
“And I trust you understand what happens when resistance is mistaken for principle.”
He stepped into the hall and almost collided with Henry.
“Ah, Dr Redmayne.” Wolfe stepped aside, smooth and expansive.
“Perfect timing. Tristan was being reminded that some paths are tolerated, and others, no matter how fond one might be of them, are quietly deemed unsuitable.” He continued down the stairs, his voice carrying up.
“A lesson your own household understands well.”
Then he was gone.
Henry stood there for a beat, brow furrowed, before looking back at me. “What the hell was that?”
I rubbed a hand over my damp hair.
The flat felt altered. Violated. As though Wolfe had redrawn its boundaries while he’d been inside it, leaving an invisible fault line running straight through the middle. Nothing looked out of place. Everything felt wrong.
Henry came closer. “You okay, Tris?”
I glanced at him. “You know what, Hen? I think it’s time you grew some balls and stood up for what you want.”
“Excuse me?”
“Claim her, Hen. If Zara is worth it to you, then go fucking claim her.”
If only it were that simple for me.