Chapter Seven Tristan #2
Was it babying? Or was it more that she actually liked me.
Maybe because I wasn’t like the other Mayfair sons.
The Made in Chelsea boys who slept with supermodels and sniffed their way through nightclubs while their mothers managed the fallout in Tatler.
Being gay had been more of an oversight than a scandal, and once I’d settled into a long-term relationship, Mother was simply relieved.
At least she didn’t have to worry about social climbers or tabloid drama like she had with my brother, Marcus.
Mrs Linton appeared again, silent as steam, setting down a plate of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon dressed with dill.
I hadn’t asked for it. I never had to. Food just appeared, perfectly plated, perfectly pointless.
If I didn’t touch it, it would vanish an hour later, scraped into the bin without a word. No questions. No hunger. No bother.
Amelia looked up from her phone. “Are you coming to my show-jumping competition next week? They’ve moved it to Windsor.”
“I’ll try,” I said, meeting her smile. She was the only one who looked at me without expectation, just pride, uncomplicated and warm. “You’ll win anyway.”
“Obviously.” She grinned, braces finally off, honey-blonde hair scraped into a too-neat ponytail Mother insisted on. Sixteen going on twelve. All gloss, good breeding, and carefully monitored innocence.
She was home for her exeat weekend, the school’s polite way of saying go remind your parents how much they’re paying for you.
She’d rather have stayed at St Mary’s Ascot, closer to Windsor and the stables, but Mother had insisted on family breakfast and “a little grounding.” She used to say the same to me when I was at Harrow. Though not as often.
Father accused her of babying me, but the truth was the umbilical cord had never been cut for Amelia.
Hardly surprising as it had cost a fortune to attach in the first place.
Five rounds of expensive IVF after years of disappointment.
By the time she arrived, I was at Harrow and Marcus was deep into his career, appearing only for holidays and performance dinners.
Amelia was the miracle baby. Their redemption arc.
Precious cargo raised in a glasshouse. And she split her life between school and the saddle.
Her dream was the Olympics; Mother’s dream was to see her there, preferably with a tiara waiting at the finish line.
I was proud of her. She had drive. And innocence.
Something I’d lost far too early.
Marcus was the first heir, built to shine. I was the middle inconvenience, taking up space between the golden child and the miracle.
“I heard about Ollie.” Amelia tilted her head, crinkling her nose the way she did when trying to sound casual.
“News travels fast.” I took a long sip of coffee and earned a look from Mother, the kind that could silence an orchestra.
Father finally lowered The Sunday Times. “What’s with Oliver?”
“We broke up.” I reached for the pastries, selecting a croissant and one of the miniature jam pots arranged like jewels on a silver tray.
“Oh, darling.” Mother’s hand came to rest on mine as I spread the jam. “Is that why you came home? He hasn’t refused to move out, has he? Do we need to call his parents?”
“No.” I kept my eyes on the plate. “He’s gone. Henry made sure of that. We packed his things.”
I didn’t mention that I’d chucked them down the fire escape after wanking all over them. Some things were best left undiscussed over pastries.
“It was my decision,” I added, a lie offered out of habit. To soothe Mother and keep Father’s judgment at bay.
“Unfortunate.” Father folded the paper at last. “But perhaps necessary.”
“Necessary?” I echoed, as if I hadn’t quite heard. The word hung there, sharp as glass. Perhaps one day, in a courtroom with him on the opposite bench, I’d get the chance to object properly.
“Maybe now you’ll refocus on your future.” He eyed me. “We’ve spoken with Chambers. Raynor Amelia bit back a grin. Father’s jaw flexed once, a small betrayal of control. The rest of the morning slipped back into its usual choreography.
“Now, now, gentlemen.” Mother rose, gathering the leftover pastries. “Play nicely.”
She carried them to the counter, setting them down for Mrs Linton, who would undoubtedly relocate them the moment we left.
“Eat up, Milly, darling. We have shopping.”
Amelia shovelled in the last of her fruit and yogurt.
“How did you hear, anyway?” I asked her.
“It was on the group chat.”
“Group chat? Who’s in this group chat?”
She licked the spoon clean. “Pearl, Tatiana, Lila, Arabella.” She smiled. “And me.”
“Right.” I tutted. “Wonderful.”
Pearl was Oliver’s old pal from preschool days, Tatiana was someone else in his circle, bringing it to Lila who roamed St Mary’s with my sister. News really does travel fast in our circles.
“Don’t worry.” Amelia hopped off her stool. “You came out fine. Everyone knows he cheated.”
I glanced at Father. His expression hadn’t shifted, but the judgment was clear.
Not anger at the betrayal itself, but profound distaste that it had happened to a Hale-Fitzroy.
Especially at the hands of a Montgomery, a boy whose family dealt in investment funds and thought a few million made them equals.
In our world, the pecking order was rigid.
And I’d been discarded by someone several rungs below.
Mother came up behind me, settling her cool, manicured hands on my shoulders as she pressed a quick kiss to my hair.
“How about a little retail therapy with me and your sister? Harrods, then lunch. She needs new school shoes, and you”—she ruffled my hair—“could certainly do with a fresh cut. Nothing like looking good for the grand revenge, hmm?”
“I’d planned on doing some laps.” I peered up to witness the disappointment that I hadn't immediately signed up for her healing ritual. “Maybe the gym. A facemask.”
“You can do that after. We’ll do it together.” She gave my shoulders a proprietary squeeze. “I’ll book Raquel. Massages, too. Oh, it will be like old times!” She clapped her hands, airy and bright.
At least I was my mother’s second favourite.
I was definitely my father’s least.
Especially now, as I met his gaze across the marble tabletop.
“Or you could join Marcus and I?” Father’s lips twitched. “He’ll be over later to discuss some business.”
Business. Meaning Marcus, my elder brother who worked for the Home Office, was liaising with my father, a King's Counsel, to secure a complex prosecution.
Likely involving Organised Crime or National Security.
A high-profile case requiring direct counsel and coordination between government policy and the Crown Prosecution Service.
They were working to put someone unsavoury away for a very long time.
But I hadn’t come home to be useful.
Or taught.
So I nodded up to Mother. She grinned. Winked at Father.
Maybe she was right. What better way to scrub off the last twenty-four hours than to trade the stale stink of an East London alley for the sharp scent of eucalyptus oil and a silk robe?
If anything could scrub away the phantom touch of rough hands on me, it was an overpriced hour of Mayfair absolution.