Chapter Eleven Tristan
Chapter eleven
Tristan
Getting through the week at work had been torture.
Not because the work itself was hard. It was always hard.
Pupillage was designed to grind you down, intimidate you, turn you into either steel or dust. Early starts, late finishes, deadlines multiplying like bacteria, cases you barely had time to breathe between…
that was the job. That was the life I’d chosen. The life I’d fought for.
Normally, I thrived on it.
But this week?
This week, it clawed at me.
Every morning, I’d dragged myself to Chambers, where Temple Crown’s stone arches yawned open into the courtyard, barristers gliding through in dark suits, everything smelling faintly of paper, ink, and ambition.
I’d drop my bag in the pupils’ room, check the whiteboard, and immediately start triaging whatever mountain of tasks Imogen had left me.
Drafting case summaries. Researching obscure points of law.
Preparing cross-examination bundles. Running down to the clerks’ room to update the rota.
Sprinting between courts to shadow whatever sentence or hearing Imogen was on that day.
A perfect storm of expectation and panic, repeated on loop.
Then there was Imogen herself.
Imogen Barrett KC — my supervisor, my terror, my idol.
Sharp as a scalpel. Unshakeable. An advocate the entire courtroom turned to face before she even spoke.
She didn’t mentor so much as test. Every question was a trap, every look an assessment.
And every meeting in her book-lined office felt like a viva I had already failed.
But when she praised me, when she said good work, Tristan, with that rare, razor-edged nod, it hit like a drug.
She’d pull me in for ten-minute updates between her own hearings, tapping her pen against my drafts as if marking time.
“What’s your view on the sentencing guidelines here?
” “Why have you chosen that authority?” “Take that paragraph out — it’s weak.
” Then she’d send me away again, loaded with another list of tasks.
This was the rhythm.
Chambers. Court. Chambers. Court.
Back and forth until day blurred into night. Normally, I disappeared into it. Surrendered to the pace. Let it consume me. But now? Now, something else consumed me instead.
Razor.
His face. His voice. His mouth. The night that rewired me so completely that even sitting in the Royal Courts of Justice felt secondary.
He bled into everything. The cases I read, the submissions I drafted, the facts I tried to focus on.
Every witness statement felt thin. Every legal test distant.
Every time Imogen asked a question, I had to drag my mind back from him.
I hated it.
Loved it.
Couldn’t function with it.
Couldn’t function without it.
By Friday I was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the memory of Razor’s mouth on mine.
I’d just come back to Chambers after a sentencing hearing with my jacket off, sleeves rolled, half-finished notes under my arm, when my phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out too fast. Stupid.
Hopeful. I hadn’t heard from Razor since Sunday and doubted I would until he wanted to fuck and forget again.
That was his rhythm. His pattern. His favourite way of pretending none of it mattered. And I was pathetic enough to want it.
But it wasn’t him.
It was someone else who also never called during the workday.
“Tristan,” Marcus said the moment I answered. “Dinner after work?”
I blinked. “With you?”
“Yes. Today. Can you make it?”
Imogen’s voice echoed down the corridor, calling my name for conference.
I hesitated.
“Tristan?” Marcus pushed. “It’s important.”
They all said that. My brother. My father. Wolfe. He’d also been calling. A lot. And I’d been busy. Thankfully, that wasn’t even an excuse. Everyone who wanted a piece of me said it was important.
“Fine,” I said. “Text me the place.”
And before I could think too hard about why my stomach had dropped, I hung up and went to face Imogen. Her door was half open, the way it always was when she wanted me to knock but not waste time knocking. I slipped inside, trying to marshal my thoughts into something resembling competence.
She finished the sentence she was writing, full stop, pen down, then raised her eyes to me. “Sentencing note?”
I handed it over. “Updated after this morning’s hearing.”
She flipped through it with the same clinical dissection she’d use on a hostile witness, tapping her nails on a paragraph. Tap. Tap.
“This is tighter.” Approval. Finally. The faintest trace, but enough to warm my chest. “Your structure’s improving.”
“I’ve been practising.”
“I can tell. Good.” She closed the file. “You’re presenting with me on Monday.”
My heart jumped. “Presenting?”
“Five-minute introduction. Nothing earth-shattering. But you’ll be on your feet.” She fixed me with a cool, incisive stare. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
It was everything I wanted.
It was everything I’d worked for, begged for, bled for.
“Yes.” I nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Then you’ll need to stay focused this weekend.” Another look. Measured. Weighted. Making me feel naked and seen in ways I didn’t like. “You’ve been… distracted.”
A pulse of panic thudded in my throat. “I’m fine.”
“Mmm.” Her gaze didn’t soften. It sharpened. “Tristan, you’re talented. Exceptionally so. But talent cracks if something else is pulling at it.”
I swallowed. “It won’t affect Monday.”
“I hope not.” She handed the file back. “Go. I have a conference.”
I turned to leave, when she called over: “And Tristan?”
I glanced back and saw her smile. Genuine. Possibly even a smirk.
“You’ll be as devastating as your father one day.” She winked. “Our side of the court.”
A ghost of a smile climbed my lips. “Thank you.”
I left Imogen’s office with my pulse still tapping under my skin, grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair, and checked Marcus’s text.
Quill & Spire. Don’t be late.
Of course he picked a place with a name promising brandy, leather seating, and gentle reminders of one’s tax bracket.
It was a venue where even the pepper grinders probably had security clearance.
I let out a sharp breath, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stepped out into the courtyard.
The late-afternoon sun hung low and heavy, turning the limestone gold.
Barristers swept past in dark suits, gowns slung over arms like black wings.
They moved quickly, efficiently, as if the whole of legal London was one enormous organism and I was just a tired cell inside it.
I crossed the square and headed out onto Fleet Street.
The city buzzed with Friday energy: clerks spilling out of pubs, cyclists weaving through taxis, the hum of commuters desperate to get home or get drunk.
Preferably both. I wanted to join them. To be another anonymous body with a pint instead of a head full of fault lines and a man I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Razor wouldn’t be coming to me tonight. Fridays were his busiest nights. Mine too, once upon a time. He’d be out there somewhere—running clubs, controlling chaos, not thinking about me.
Not the way I thought about him.
I cut down towards the Strand, dodging tourists and briefcases, letting the city swallow me whole.
The closer I got to the restaurant, the sharper the ache under my ribs grew.
Quill & Spire sat wedged between a private members’ club and a florist so expensive it only sold five types of flowers.
Its windows glowed warm and amber, with the lighting deliberately low so no one noticed their own moral erosion.
Inside, it was all polished mahogany and quiet money.
White tablecloths. Crystal glasses. The faint smell of oak, wine, and ambition.
Marcus was already seated.
That alone threw me. He usually worked later than I did and got paid handsomely for it. Unlike me, budgeting my way through pupillage on Inns scraps while my trust fund sat locked behind marriage, thirty, or a devastatingly compelling argument.
He’d be paying tonight.
“Tristan.” He didn’t offer a smile. Not even the thin, professional one he reserved for colleagues he despised.
I slid into the seat opposite. “Marcus.”
The air between us cooled immediately, as if someone had cracked a window and let in a draught of disapproval.
“Thank you for coming on short notice.” He lifted a hand, and a server materialised instantly. The magic trick of expensive establishments. Marcus ordered a brandy. I ordered the largest glass of rioja they’d legally serve.
He barely waited until the server left. “I can’t stay long. I need to get back for Eloise.”
Ovulating, probably. I didn’t ask.
“So what’s this about?” Was the question I had instead.
“I heard you had dinner with Lord Wolfe.”
“Dad arranged it.”
“Yes.” Marcus lifted his glass, the amber catching the low light. “He told me. Eventually.”
I frowned. “So where’s the problem?”
Marcus exhaled, the official brace-yourself breath. “I’m concerned about you.”
That startled me more than it should have. “You are?”
“Yes.” He looked at me as if that were obvious. “Of course. You’re my brother.”
While technically true, what he really meant was: You’re a Hale-Fitzroy, and any stain on you bleeds onto me. His concern was for optics, legacy, integrity of name. Not my bruisable body or complicated heart.
“It was a business dinner.” I thanked the server as they set my wine down. I took a greedy sip. God, that hit exactly where I needed it.
Marcus didn’t touch his brandy. “Lord Wolfe has a reputation.” He darted his gaze around the restaurant to see if anyone was listening. “Not the public one. The one that moves under the surface. He has… interests. Preferences.”