Chapter Two Tristan
Chapter two
Tristan
I’d eaten in more than my fair share of pretentious London restaurants.
This one was no different. At least, not at first glance.
New place in Soho. Recently opened. Trying far too hard.
Tablecloths so aggressively white they could double as interrogation lights, and a menu written entirely in French.
As if the ability to pronounce poulet r?ti proved character.
Most nights, I would’ve risen to the challenge.
I could recite half the dishes in Latin if someone pressed me.
Harrow, then Oxford, then called to the Bar, followed by the detour of a disastrous master’s degree my father reluctantly funded before I quit it for pupillage, I was packaged and polished to perfection.
And had dined at enough top-tier establishments where I left hungrier than when I arrived, my father’s wallet lighter and my self-importance heavier.
But something about this place felt… off.
Not the food. Nor even the gaudy décor. It was something in the air.
Or maybe it was just the man sitting across from me.
Tonight, I wasn’t here for fine dining. I was here for Lord Adrian Wolfe. A life peer in the House of Lords. Political adviser.
Not a date.
Christ, no.
Charles Hale-Fitzroy would never risk the family name on something as flimsy as romance. If he arranged a dinner, it was because the other party had the power to buy, bury, or resurrect an entire career with a single phone call. And Lord Wolfe ticked every one of those boxes.
With a diamond-tipped pen.
Father wasn’t aware of Wolfe’s favourite secret, though.
The worst-kept one in certain corners of Westminster.
That Wolfe liked men. Young men, in particular.
But his scandals never reached the tabloids because he had them smothered long before any camera dared to blink.
He was a public saint with a private appetite.
A man who lived two lives and controlled both with immaculate precision.
Though if Father did know…
Then this dinner wasn’t for networking.
It was a polite shove into the cattle ring. Go on, Tristan. Mingle. But only with the pedigree stock we’ve pre-selected for you.
Either way, I was here.
Because Father had asked. And he’d looked…
tired and hollow around the eyes when he had, and I’d clearly been in a rare, good mood when I’d agreed.
But now I regretted it as Wolfe stared at me across the table as if he’d ordered me specially and the chef had sent me out on a silver platter.
It was obvious how he would fill the hunger the food wouldn’t touch.
With me.
Wolfe lounged back in his chair, the picture of tailored power.
Charcoal suit cut to his frame, cufflinks burning amber under the low lights, a face sharp enough to slice through a man and cold enough to enjoy the precision of it, with a flock of silver hair defying age.
He steepled his fingers over his mouth, settling his elbows on the table in a way that would’ve earned me a Hale-Fitzroy lecture about posture, breeding, optics.
No one corrected Lord Wolfe, though.
People bent themselves into whatever shape made his life easier.
The server approached and Wolfe didn’t glance at her. His eyes stayed on me as he ordered the most expensive bottle on the list. Never once looking away. It felt like a fingertip trailing down my spine. Eight months single and, apparently, I’d forgotten how to deal with such intent.
Or maybe I’d forgotten how to stop seeing Razor every time someone looked at me like that.
Wolfe’s intent was… rather a lot, though.
Still, I’d heard the food here was good.
And the wine expensive enough to sand down my nerves.
I was going to need it, especially with the rumours about Adrian not limiting his interests to anything legally obtainable.
Though I suspected most of that was myth.
A man like Wolfe didn’t get his hands dirty.
He dirtied other people’s hands and called it strategy.
“I must say, Tristan, your father undersold you.” Adrian nodded at the server to pour after tasting from the bottle she’d brought up from the cellar, then lifted his glass towards mine. “I’m rather glad I asked him to arrange this. I prefer forming my own opinions.”
I clinked his rim. “Why? Did he tell you I’m a complete rogue?”
Adrian’s chuckle was aged in oak and arrogance. “He did mention how you like to sway out of the lines a little.” He trailed his gaze gradually over me. Unhurried. Clinical. And hungry all at once. “And I must admit, I’m rather curious how far out of those lines you go.”
“Not too far.” I set my wine down before I downed it. “It’s a weeknight. Imogen won’t be thrilled if her pupil turns up at court hungover.”
“Ah, yes. Imogen Barrett KC.” Wolfe’s smile sharpened. “Your father must be proud. Imogen doesn’t take just anyone.”
Seven months into pupillage at Temple Crown Chambers, drafting case materials, shadowing trials, interviewing clients who pretended not to recognise the Hale-Fitzroy surname, I should have felt as though I’d finally clawed free of Mayfair’s gilded chokehold.
But I knew better.
My father’s shadow stretched even here. It always had.
I wouldn’t even be in pupillage this year if he hadn’t found me one late and leant on me to take it, to quit the Master’s I’d enrolled in for a man who’d since cheated and vanished, leaving me exactly where my father had always predicted I’d end up. Drifting.
I cleared my throat and sat forward an inch, trying to restore some kind of… boundary and ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “My father said you’re working across several government advisory panels?”
“Several?” Wolfe lifted a brow. “Try nine.” He waved a hand, modestly immodest. “I chair three of them. Cabinet oversight, economic reform, that sort of thing. A fair bit of select committee work in the Lords as well.”
He didn’t even bother to make it subtle.
“And.” He swirled his glass. “I’ve recently been asked to consult on a new financial crime initiative with the Home Office. Proving to be… quite involved. The underground economy is a hydra. Cut off one head, and two grow back.”
“That’s interesting,” I tried to steer this conversation to the point of me being here. “I’ve been doing some research for my chambers on a laundering case, actually—”
“Oh, I know.” Wolfe leant forward. “Your father mentioned it. He’s very proud. Says you’re thriving.”
Proud? Father’s only genuine show of pride had been the day I moved out of the Clerkenwell house share, after Henry and Zara scattered to their own corners of London and took up residence in the Barons Court flat he paid for.
Apparently, adulthood was defined by proximity to a postcode he approved of.
“And how are you finding the work?” Wolfe asked. “Drafting briefs, interviewing clients, reading late nights at Temple Crown…” He quirked a brow. “Keeping yourself busy.”
“I like to be busy.”
“I can see that.” He swept his gaze over me again. “Productive men are… compelling.”
I shifted in my seat. “Anyway, about the advisory work, my father said there might be an opportunity for barristers—”
“There might.” Wolf’s eyes glinted. “For the right candidate.” He pointed a finger at me from around the wine glass. “And you, Tristan, are very right in very many ways.”
My pulse stuttered.
But he continued as if he hadn’t insinuated how my sexuality benefited him. “I work directly with two cabinet ministers, the Met Commissioner, and half the senior CPS board. When I want a door opened, it opens. When I want a name removed… it disappears.”
“That’s… impressive.” Though, not really to me.
“It is.” He took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. “But influence is only as interesting as the people you share it with. And I enjoy investing in potential.” His smile darkened. “Especially when it comes in such a… charming package.”
I felt myself flush, hating how he could do that with a single sentence.
Wolfe set down his glass, steepling his fingers again, elbows planted on the table with deliberate insolence. “You strike me as someone who could go very far, Tristan. Quickly. All you need is the right hand guiding you.” He dropped his gaze to my throat. “Or holding you.”
A pulse of heat shot through me. Dark. Intrusive. Unwelcome. So I grabbed my wine and took a long drink, letting the burn scrape the image of Wolfe’s hands around my throat out of my head as a shadow fell across the table.
“Elliot.” Wolfe rose smoothly and offered his hand to the approaching suit. “Good to see you. Might I introduce Tristan Hale-Fitzroy?” He gestured towards me. “Tristan, Elliot is the owner of the Velvet Lounge.”
I offered the man a polite smile, but Elliot didn’t return it; he barely acknowledged me. He focused on Wolfe, his grip on the handshake too tight to be friendly.
“Actually, Lord Wolfe,” Elliot leant in, “I need a word.”
Wolfe blinked, mildly annoyed. “I’m rather busy, old boy.”
He looked at me, expecting support, maybe even permission.
“Honestly, it’s fine.” I waved him off, reaching for my blazer hanging over the chair and into the pocket for my phone. “I have a few emails I need to reply to, anyway.”
Wolfe buttoned his blazer in an elegant, irritated performance. “Very well. Nothing’s wrong, is it, Elliot?”
“Just a moment of your time.”
Something in the way he said it lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.
Clipped, urgent, almost warning. But Wolfe didn’t seem to notice or care.
He merely sighed, straightened his cuffs, and let Elliot guide him away.
I watched them retreat towards the bar, Elliot leaning in, talking low into Wolfe’s ear.
Then a hand on Wolfe’s arm, steering him towards the back.
Where the loos and the dim corridor led in a direction of which I knew nothing about. Wasn’t sure I wanted to.
As soon as they disappeared, my shoulders dropped a fraction.
I breathed.
Checked my phone.