Chapter Eleven Tristan #2
I tilted my neck. “If you mean he might be interested in more than my legal mind and surname, I’m not that na?ve, Marcus.
I’m fully aware. I’ve been on the receiving end of his lecherous gazing at me for a while now.
It isn’t subtle. And whilst I appreciate the warning, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.
” I took another swig of wine and thought about ordering another.
Or a bottle. “You don’t need to suddenly play the protective older brother. ”
Marcus didn’t look dismissive. Or irritated. Or self-righteous. And for the first time in a long time, I saw a resemblance of genuine concern underneath all the Hale-Fitzroy polish.
It was almost enough to unsettle me.
Almost.
“He’s noticed you, Tristan.” Marcus knocked back some brandy. “And that makes me… uneasy. Especially if Dad is encouraging it. I’m not convinced he knows everything I know about him.”
A cold ripple slid through me. I leant back, the chair suddenly too stiff, the room too warm. “Marcus, nothing happened. He barely said five words to me before—”
Before he was escorted out the back door and I let Razor fuck me senseless in a broom cupboard.
I didn’t say that. Obviously.
“…before he had to leave,” I finished instead.
Marcus watched me closely. As if he could smell the truth on my skin.
“He didn’t have to leave, Tris. This is Lord Wolfe.” Marcus leant forward. “He orchestrates optics for a living. Every room, every handshake, every photograph. If he walks into a restaurant, it’s because he wants to be seen there.”
I forced my expression to stay blank. “And?”
“And someone in that restaurant had him quietly removed. In front of witnesses. You.” Marcus’s jaw tightened. “That is not a small thing to a man like him.”
My stomach dipped. “You think he cares about my opinion that much?”
“It’s not your opinion. He cares about perception.” Marcus’s voice dropped further, all civil-service caution. “He doesn’t tolerate being embarrassed. Especially not when dining with a Hale-Fitzroy.”
I swallowed.
Marcus carried on, “Now he’s circling the Home Office. Asking questions. Dropping names.” He pointed at me. “Yours, notably.”
The words thudded through me, heavy and unwelcome.
“Jesus, Tris.” Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Men like Lord Wolfe don’t let go of insults. Or humiliation. Or opportunity.”
The server returned then, placing two plates in front of us. Confit duck with dauphinoise, rich and steaming. Dishes Marcus had clearly ordered long before I’d arrived. He thanked her with a polished smile but the moment she stepped away, the mask dropped.
“And right now.” He pointed his fork at me. “You are all three.”
I lifted a hand and caught the server before she got too far. “Another glass of wine, please.” Coping mechanism. Liquid courage. Call it what you like. “I fail to see how this is my fault.”
Which was a lie. Of course, I knew it was. But boys raised on Latin mottos and legacy dinners are trained early in the art of strategic innocence.
“I didn’t say it was. I’m simply warning you.
” Marcus cut neatly through the crisp skin on his duck.
“Telling you to be careful. Whoever had him removed didn’t just bruise his ego.
They embarrassed him. Publicly. He won’t shrug that off.
” He scraped off his duck from his fork.
“If he sees you as connected to that humiliation, he won’t confront you. He’ll reposition you.”
I swallowed, the back of my throat tight. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m not convinced Dad is thinking clearly right now.” Marcus popped a forkful into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “He’s under enough pressure as it is, what with the treatment…”
I flinched. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The treatment.”
“What treatment?”
Marcus looked at me for a long moment, then tilted his neck. “Do you not know?”
“Know what?”
“About Father.”
“Clearly not,” I snapped, voice shaking despite my best efforts. “What about him?”
Marcus set down his knife and fork, steepling his fingers beneath his chin in that managerial way he’d perfected by twenty-five. “Father has cancer, Tristan. Early-stage adenocarcinoma.”
White noise burst in my ears. “He… what…?”
“He was diagnosed eight weeks ago.” Marcus shook his head. “He didn’t…fuck, didn’t he tell you?”
I stared at him, everything inside me tilting, sliding, coming apart. “Obviously not.”
Marcus tsked. Tsked. Then went back to his meal. “Typical of him.”
“Does Amelia know?”
“Of course. She sits with him during his sessions.” Marcus ate some more.
“Think he prefers her to Mum’s fussing. And I don’t have the time and well…
” He waved his fork again, clearly realising the reason I hadn’t sat with him was because he hadn’t told me.
So he used the fork to stab a carrot. “Milly can talk about horses and the Olympics. Take his mind off things like work.”
I clenched my jaw.
“Anyway, he’s hopeful. As am I. Best not to let it concern you.”
I snorted, sharp and humourless. “No. Of course not. How ridiculous of me to be concerned.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” Marcus didn’t even look up from his duck. “What I mean is, it’s handled. Or being handled. Which leaves me to handle you. That”—he stabbed his fork in my direction—“is what this dinner is about.”
I stood up so fast that the chair legs screeched across the polished floor. Conversations faltered. Silverware paused mid-air.
Marcus widened his eyes. “Where are you going?”
I stared down at him. My brother, my handler, my legacy-enforcer.
And red-hot fury burnt up through the soles of my feet.
I grabbed my glass and downed the rest of the wine in one vicious swallow.
Marcus darted his gaze around the room, mortified, the way only a man raised on reputational paranoia could be.
Then I slammed the empty glass onto the table hard enough for it to rattle.
“Don’t worry about my relationship with Wolfe.” I gritted my teeth. “Best not let it concern you.”
Marcus exhaled sharply but I didn’t give him a chance to recover.
I walked out.
The Strand was a blur. Taxis honking, tourists dragging suitcases, Friday-night everything. My chest felt too small, my breath too thin. I moved, cutting across the pavement until a pub appeared looking dim enough, empty enough, anonymous enough to collapse in without witnesses.
I slipped inside, pushed through the few bodies at the bar, and planted my hands on the wood. “A bottle of Rioja.”
The bartender fetched it. I uncorked it myself and drank straight from the glass he shoved at me, the first mouthful burning down my throat, the second numbing everything behind my ribs. Then, I pulled out my phone and typed the only person who could answer without bullshit:
What’s early-stage adenocarcinoma and prognosis?
Henry replied immediately. A doctor first, friend second.
Lung cancer. If caught early: high chance of full recovery. If not: poor prognosis. Why?
The words punched through me.
Lung cancer.
My father.
No one telling me.
I threw back half of my glass. Then the rest. The bottle lowered by inches. The room tilted by degrees. And I ordered a couple of whiskies. The hours passed then. And all I could think was how much I needed something. No, not something. Someone.
I shouldn’t have texted. I knew I shouldn’t have.
But grief and anger and Razor were mixing in my bloodstream, making everything soft and stupid.
I typed: Where’s your window at?
And hit send before I could stop myself.