Chapter Twenty-One Tristan
Chapter twenty-one
Tristan
Sighing, I leant back against the cold porcelain sinks in the washroom and closed my eyes.
The private members’ club at Lincoln’s Inn was hushed even in here. Muted footsteps beyond the door, the faint clink of cutlery from the dining room. Polished marble. Brass fixtures. Everything designed to reassure that nothing bad ever happened in places like this.
Yet it had.
To me.
My phone sat heavy in my hand, and I hated myself for wanting to call back.
I was supposed to be okay with this. That was the bargain I’d made with myself.
The moment I’d let Razor in again, I’d accepted the inevitable fallout.
Whatever falling for someone like him cost, I’d told myself I could pay it.
I hadn’t realised the bill would come due so quickly.
But now I was here. At brunch with Lord Wolfe.
The thing I’d been avoiding for weeks. Avoiding his polite emails.
The sense that he was already one step ahead of me.
Then he’d just appeared at the station. Smiling, conversational, offering me a lift.
As if he hadn’t somehow known my diary was clear.
As if Imogen hadn’t mysteriously “approved” this time without question.
I should’ve said no.
Instead, I’d agreed to it. To get it over with.
And when my phone rang with Henry’s name flashing up, I’d seized the excuse like a lifeline.
And I’d slipped away with a murmured apology and locked myself in here to take the call.
I’d assumed it would be about Zara again.
Some fresh drama. A familiar distraction.
It hadn’t been.
“You remember that man I stitched up last year?” Henry had said. “Knife wound. Turned up bleeding in your bedroom. The one you absolutely refuse to talk about.”
My heart had slammed so hard I’d barely made it into a cubicle before he continued.
“The one who promptly ruined my handiwork because you and he were…well, let’s say enthusiastic. I couldn’t tell if you were being assaulted or having a very committed personal moment. I remember thinking it sounded… consensual. Disturbingly so.”
“Henry.” My voice came out tight. “What about him?”
“He’s just walked into my A&E.”
The world tilted.
“Are you sure?” I rubbed my forehead. “Sure it’s him?”
“You don’t forget a man you triaged with a knife wound in your own home.”
Fuck. “Is he there now?”
“Yes.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Well, he’s not my patient. But…he looks… disturbed.”
My fingers had gone numb around the phone. “Can I talk to him?”
“I’m sure you already have his number.”
I did, but he wouldn’t be using it. “Could you put him on your phone? Now?”
A pause. “Tris—”
“Please.” I’d begged. “Please. Don’t ask why. Don’t ask who he is. Just, please give him the phone.”
There’d been a slight wait, a kerfuffle, then Razor had come on the phone.
Or Rich had. I was never sure who I’d be talking to.
And that conversation had happened. I’d assumed, feared, this was him trying to do the impossible.
Trying to get out. That whatever hell he’d warned me about had finally snapped its jaws shut around him.
He’d told them he was out, and they’d made assurances that it wouldn’t happen.
I was relieved when he’d said he was okay.
It wasn’t him who needed the emergency. Then…
he’d called me baby. Slipped it out. I was fully aware he’d said it unintentionally.
Probably to shut me up, but somehow that made it more significant.
And fuck, I’d melted.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the emotion down, forcing myself back into the room, back into the world where I still had to function. Where Lord Wolfe waited for me over linen and wine and shallow conversation.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, straightened my tie, and checked my reflection.
Pale. Eyes too bright. But presentable.
Good enough.
When I stepped back into the restaurant, the warmth hit me first. Low light, polished wood, oil paintings lining the walls.
Lawyers murmured over plates of food, voices softened by years of discretion.
Wolfe sat exactly where I’d left him, posture relaxed, jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair, as if he’d never doubted I’d return.
He looked up as I approached and smiled, all easy warmth and practised reassurance. “Everything all right?”
I slid into the chair opposite him. “Uh… yes. Well, no.”
I reached for the wine, took a sip tasting sharp and wrong, then set the glass down. I could feel Wolfe’s attention sharpen, the way a room seems to tilt when someone truly starts watching.
“Sorry.” I had nothing else useful to offer. “I’ve had… some upsetting news.”
“Oh, dear.” Wolfe’s expression softened, sympathy arranged with rehearsed ease. “Nothing too tragic, I hope.”
He reached for the bottle and topped my glass up without asking. I watched the wine darken, the surface settling, and made a choice. Better to offer something than nothing at all. Better to seem open than secretive. Better perhaps to nudge him away from whatever he thought he might claim from me.
“The man I’ve been seeing,” I said carefully, “he’s… unwell. And I might not see him for a while.”
Wolfe didn’t react straight away. He let the silence stretch long enough to make me want to fill it. I didn’t though. I’d been brought up on those silences.
“Your father didn’t mention you were seeing anyone.” He poured more wine into his own glass.
“My father doesn’t know everything about me.”
Amusement splashed across Wolfe’s face. “I should hope not.”
I held his gaze, suddenly aware of how much I was giving away.
My father’s voice echoed faintly in my head.
My brother’s. Don’t give him more than he’s earned.
But if Wolfe had been on my street that morning, if he’d seen Razor with me, then fibbing would look far worse than honesty.
Better to acknowledge it. Strip it of mystery.
Make it smaller. He couldn’t know who Razor was.
Yes, Razor had been the one to orchestrate Wolfe’s removal from the Velvet Lounge, but Wolfe hadn’t seen him or knew he had anything to do with me.
He lifted his glass and took a sip. “Charles said you’d had a rather difficult run of late. Since your breakup with…” He tapped his fingers on his glass as if searching his memory. “Oliver Montgomery. Evan Montgomery’s son. Private equity.”
I didn’t correct him. There was nothing to correct.
“And Charles mentioned how he felt Oliver was never quite the right fit for you.” Wolfe popped down his glass. “That you were finding it… challenging to find an appropriate partner. Is this new one not appropriate for Hale-Fitzroy approval?”
Appropriate.
Code for pedigree. For polish. Names that opened doors and dinners that never turned awkward.
I rubbed my palms over the napkin in my lap. “He’s not inappropriate,” I said, a shade too quickly. “But things between us are very early. There’s no need to involve my father’s disapproval just yet.”
“Of course.” Wolfe smiled, sipping his wine, his gaze never leaving my face. “What line of work is he in?”
I wished I’d said nothing.
“Clubs.”
“Ah.” Wolfe nodded. “Private members? Or one of those dance establishments?” He tilted his head.
“Lucrative when they’re well run. Though not without…
volatility. Hospitality’s rather unforgiving these days.
I imagine it must be difficult, being with someone whose life operates so far outside your own rhythms.”
I stiffened. He noticed.
Because Razor’s line of work was more aligned with mine than was reasonably acceptable.
“Law is predictable.” Wolfe picked up his glass. “Structure. Timetables. Consequences. Some people find that comforting.”
“Others find it suffocating,” I said, before I could stop myself.
Wolfe’s smile deepened. Not triumphant. Appreciative.
“Quite. But unpredictability comes at a cost. Especially for men in your position.”
“I’m not naive.”
“I wouldn’t insult you by suggesting otherwise.” Wolfe leant back, folding his hands loosely. “But you are ambitious. And ambition requires… clarity. You’ve worked very hard to place yourself where you are, Tristan. It would be a shame to let temporary chaos blur your focus.”
“I’m not planning to.” Though the certainty thinned even as the words left my mouth.
Especially now.
Wolfe nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good.”
He turned his head towards the tall windows, where Lincoln’s Inn lay washed in late morning light.
Orderly, ancient, unyielding. Stone that had watched centuries pass and barely noticed.
It struck me then how convincing the illusion was.
How things moved. Lives bent. When really, most people were set on their tracks early and spent the rest of their time mistaking momentum for choice.
I belonged here. In rooms like this. In conversations folding neatly into precedent and expectation.
Razor didn’t.
And the thought hit harder than I expected. That no matter how much he wanted out, how fiercely he fought it, the wheel turning his life might never slow enough to let him step clear. Some systems weren’t built to release you. They just rolled on, grinding down anything that tried.
“Whatever happens,” Wolfe turned back to me, “it’s worth remembering you don’t have to navigate these things alone. Mentorship exists for a reason.”
I frowned. “Mentorship?”
“Of course.” His gaze settled on me, steady, assessing. “That’s why you’re here. I make a point of looking after promising people.” He lifted his glass, took another sip, eyes still on mine. “I saw you in full flow at Highbury Magistrates the other day.”
My chest tightened. Not with pride, but with the growing awareness that this, too, had been inevitable. Perhaps that’s what Father and Marcus had been trying to explain. That I needed to accept my fate and be vigilant about it.
“You were at Highbury?”