Chapter Seven Razor #2
Saturday brought Amelia’s sweet sixteenth. Or, more accurately, Charles Hale-Fitzroy’s annual “strategic social engagement thinly disguised as a birthday party,” with Amelia’s actual joy tucked neatly between rounds of networking.
Tradition was tradition.
And appearances in our world were everything.
The heat was brutal. High thirties, July scorch making London feel like Spain. So I dressed accordingly: white chino shorts, boat shoes, a pale blue shirt open at the collar, sunglasses tucked into the V. Then I wrapped Milly’s present, ordered a cab, and arrived in Mayfair fashionably late.
Shockingly, nobody died of surprise.
Mrs Linton ushered me through the house and into the back conservatory where the folding doors had been thrown wide, spilling light onto the shimmering deck and out into the immaculately groomed garden where everything sparkled.
People drifted about in creams and tans, dresses and heels, perfectly harmonised casual elegance.
Servers glided between them with trays of Pimm’s and champagne.
Amelia twirled at the centre of it all, opening presents under the approving gaze of the Hale-Fitzroy social ecosystem.
A private chef manned the outdoor kitchen.
No charred sausages or collapsing burgers here.
Oh no, those cuts of beef probably had their own trust funds.
I grabbed a champagne flute on instinct and found Henry lurking by the rose bushes, looking as miserable as I felt. His parents were somewhere in the hedgerows, no doubt discussing tax havens.
“Hen.” I clinked my glass lightly against his.
“Tris.” He gave me a once-over. “Glad you ditched that oversized black shirt monstrosity you were wearing the other day.”
He meant Razor’s shirt.
And I hadn’t ditched it. It was still under my pillow.
I’d stared at it far too long last night, breathing him in from the fabric, missing the man who’d pulled it over my head, wishing he’d call, knowing I shouldn’t answer it if he did.
I shook myself out of it. “Zara not with you?” I scanned the garden, expecting to find her among the horde drunk on Pimm’s.
Henry went quiet. Too quiet. I looked up at him, and he took a lingering sip before shaking his head.
“You two haven’t—”
“Shhh.” He glanced around as if the rose bushes had ears.
“Jesus, Hen. Everyone knows you and Zara have been fucking since fresher year. It isn’t a secret.”
“That may be. But it’s also ill-advised.”
“She’s working in politics now,” I said. “Trying to leave the scandal of her parents’ new money behind. Surely that counts for something?”
“You’ve met my parents, haven’t you?”
That was a dig. Not at me. At himself. The cage he lived in.
Because of course I’d met them.
The Redmaynes were the same as the Hale-Fitzroys: they measured love and relationships the same way they measured investments.
By pedigree and projected return. Henry could march on a picket line every weekend, but he was still expected to marry a woman whose lineage was older than Zara’s, whose wealth had been inherited rather than earned, and whose name came from a nobility rather than entrepreneurship.
Henry wanted Zara.
But he was supposed to choose “better stock.”
I knew that trap too well.
Knew what it felt like to want something our world would never approve of. And worse, not even Henry would approve of who I wanted.
“Come on, then.” Henry gestured with his glass at the crowd. “Let’s…mingle.”
We moved through the people, heads turning, smiles blooming with polished politeness.
My mother’s friends. Marcus’s colleagues.
Politicians. Judges. A hedge fund manager or three.
Everyone dressed in pastel shades, looking freshly ironed by invisible servants.
The string quartet swelled under the nearest white canopy; champagne fountains caught the sun like liquid gold.
This was my childhood. This garden. This mansion. These expectations.
A thousand miles away from Hackney and Razor’s hands on my throat.
“Darling!” Mother swept towards us, all linen and perfume, air-kissing me twice before turning to Henry. “How are those picket lines, Hen? Must be ghastly standing around out there all day.”
“Not as ghastly as standing in piss, blood, and shit, Mrs Hale-Fitzroy.”
I nearly choked on my champagne.
Henry Redmayne, growing a spine in real time. Who knew? Zara must be rubbing off on him through osmosis.
“Tristan, that’s rather frightful.” Mother scolded my uncouth display, ignoring Henry completely. She then eyed the way we were standing shoulder to shoulder, same as we had since prep school. “Why are you two always riding stag on each other?”
Henry coughed so hard he went scarlet.
I blinked at her. “That’s quite a turn of phrase, Mother.”
“It means single, does it not?”
“In some circumstances, yes. But perhaps not when your son is gay.”
“Oh!” She flushed a deep pink, then immediately pointed her champagne flute towards the far lawn. “I really must catch the Montagues before they leave. Do excuse me.” She kissed my cheek again. “And don’t forget to say hello to your father.”
She glided off.
Henry rubbed a hand over his face. “Riding stag,” he muttered. “Do you think I’m considered a stag?”
“It’s been a while since I had a look, Hen.”
He snorted, but his expression wilted. “I’ve only ever slept with Zara.”
“I know.”
He wasn’t embarrassed. Not about falling into bed with Zara and never really crawling back out.
That part wasn’t the problem. What hurt was the part he never said aloud: Henry loved her.
But he wasn’t permitted to. Families like ours cared more about dynasties than desires.
Names over needs. Lineage over longing. Stock portfolios over beating hearts.
I took a sip of champagne, the party sparkling gold around us while my best friend quietly swallowed the life he wanted.
At least it wasn’t only me suffocating behind silk curtains.
Still, if my little secret detour into the underworld ever surfaced, at least Henry could find comfort in how he hadn’t fallen quite as disastrously off-brand as I had.
“Tris!” Amelia launched up to me, squealing and throwing her arms around my waist. Christ, she was growing fast. Practically all legs and competitive spirit.
“Happy birthday, Milly.” I ruffled her perfectly tousled blonde ponytail secured with a delicate ribbon bow.
“What did you get me?”
“Pushy.” I tugged the long velvet box out of my shorts pocket and handed it over.
She opened it as if paper and bows were a silly nuisance, then gasped. Inside lay a custom-made silver-and-gold horse pendant, shaped into a rearing Andalusian, its mane set with tiny champagne diamonds with her name engraved on the underside.
“Tristan…” She gaped up at me. “It’s beautiful.”
“It reminded me of Luna. Thought you could wear her with you at competitions.”
She hugged me again, hard enough to knock the breath out of me. “Thank you. It’s a hundred times better than Marcus’s first edition Black Beauty.”
“He always was a bore with presents.”
“Speaking of.” Henry tipped his glass towards the oncoming figure.
Marcus. The golden child. The polished Hale-Fitzroy prototype.
“Henry. Tris.” Marcus shook Henry’s hand, then mine. “Good to see you both.”
I wished I could say the same.
Marcus flashed Henry a professional smile. “How’s the doctoring going, Hen?”
Henry’s answering laugh was sharp. “Oh, you know. Twenty-hour shifts. No beds. Patients lined up in corridors. Babies dying because we can’t staff the unit.
Elderly people waiting fourteen hours to be seen.
And half of A&E showing up because 111 told them hiccups might be cancer.
All for what? Fifteen quid an hour and a pension that’ll be bankrupt by the time I hit forty.
” He pointed his glass at Marcus. “Perhaps the Home Office could help? Nudge the Health Secretary? Push it up a chain that actually moves?”
I could’ve hugged him.
“Different department, I’m afraid, old boy.” Marcus lifted his Pimm’s. “Immigration and organised crime are more my wheelhouse these days.”
Of course they were.
Henry raised an eyebrow. “Still cleaning up the fallout from that big East London bust?”
Marcus’s expression cooled by a fraction. “Some loose ends. Some people who weren’t where we thought they’d be. The network is… resilient.”
Henry made a low noise and flicked his gaze towards me.
My stomach dropped.
“But that’s the job, isn’t it?” Marcus continued, oblivious. “Cut off one head, and two more snap back.”
Before I could steer the conversation somewhere less suicidal, a shadow stretched across the lawn. My father.
“Good luck,” Henry muttered, then drifted away with Amelia over to the food stations, abandoning me to my fate.
Because beside my father was Lord Wolfe.
Perfect.
Wolfe’s arrival drained the sound from the garden. Conversations thinned. People shifted, angling themselves towards him in practiced deference. Even the champagne bubbles seemed to hold their breath.
Me? I held my nerves.
“Marcus,” my father said warmly, “just the man Lord Wolfe wanted a word with.”
Wolfe’s smile was impeccable. Civil on the surface, cold beneath. “Home Office excellence.” He offered his hand. “Your briefings on the East London operation were… illuminating.”
Marcus squared his shoulders with pride. “Glad to be of service, my Lord.”
Wolfe’s gaze slid to me, softening in a way that scraped across my skin. “Tristan. Always a pleasure.”
Beside him, my father coughed into a handkerchief. Quick. Restrained. But not enough to hide the strain in his breathing. His skin was pale too. Rather odd for a man whose wife insisted he take holidays to the sun regularly, with a sunbed in the attic.
“You okay, Father?” I asked quietly.
He waved me off. “Just the heat.”
I glanced back at Wolfe. And regretted it instantly.
He looked at me with such intent. Like an open book, flipping through my pages with idle curiosity.
Then I caught sight of Henry being introduced to Grace Fairfax, daughter of the Governor of the Bank of England’s advisory board, and already head of a major art auction house straight out of her Cambridge master’s.
We were all being groomed by someone.
Wolfe turned back to Marcus. “This bust of yours, fascinating work. And timely. These organised outfits in East London have been far too comfortable for far too long.”
Marcus straightened. “We’re determined to correct that.”
Wolfe’s smile thinned to a blade. “As am I, and the ball…” he leant towards Marcus to lower his voice, but his hand grazed my back as he did, “—is, as they say, rolling.”
A cold ripple slid down my spine.
“Excuse me.” I stepped back. “I’ll leave you men to it. Conflict of interest, you understand.”
At least my job was good for something.
I slipped out while they turned to talk strategy, did my son-and-brother duties with Amelia and my mother, then made for the house to make a quiet escape. Unfortunately, Lord Wolfe had the instincts of a predator.
“Tristan!”
I paused in the corridor, schooling my face before I turned.
“We must rearrange that dinner.” Wolfe crossed towards me with a smile. “I spoke with Elliot from the Velvet Lounge about my… untimely departure the other night. They’ve offered the Mezzanine VIP suite for us. How does Friday sound?”
I glanced past him to where my father stood by the bar, coughing again. Soft but persistent. He looked up enough to give me the smallest nod. He’d sent Wolfe to me or at least welcomed Wolfe’s advances.
“I’ll check my diary,” I said.
“I’ll send a car.” Wolfe squeezed my arm, then leant in close enough for his breath to ghost my ear. “They have a fabulous dessert menu.”
Didn’t I already know that?
He walked away without waiting for my answer.
And I stood there in the quiet, the party din muffled behind me, Wolfe’s touch ghosting my skin and my father’s cough echoing faintly across the marble, thinking, absurdly, how Razor’s world had been dangerous in a way I understood.
This one felt far worse.
Because it felt inevitable