Page 72 of Crave

“What look?”

“The one where you’re planning your defence before anyone’s even accused you of anything.”

“Occupational hazard.” I ignored her scrutiny.

“Hm.” She pointed at me. “Though you have that wide eyes, innocent mouth, guilty aura working for you this morning. What have you been up to?”

“I do not have a guilty aura.”

Henry snorted as he screwed the lid onto his smoothie bottle. “Tris, you absolutely do. You practically sweat secrets. It’s one of your many talents.”

“Says the pair of you.”

They shared a look, brief and loaded, before both very deliberately looked away.

“Remember the time you swore blind you hadn’t touched your mother’s Clive Christian No.1?” Zara was attempting to dig herself out the hole. “Then we found it hidden in a sock behind the radiator?”

I winced. “That was one time.”

“You decanted it into a travel atomiser and tried to blame the cleaner.” Henry chuckled. “With a straight face.”

“I was sixteen.”

“Mm.” Zara jumped down from the counter. “You’re right. That was amateur hour. You’re much more polished now.”

They meant it as a joke. A soft dig. But it landed harder than it should’ve.

Because they didn’t know. They had no idea what secrets I currently kept, the lies I was telling. Or about the man I’d let touch me. The world I’d stepped into. They were my closest friends, my allies in the curated chaos of my life, and yet there were entire parts of me they wouldn’t begin to understand. Me letting an Eastend thug, a dealer whose name carried fear, fuck me out in the open? That didn’t exist in our world. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst was how much I’d liked it. How much I still did. And how I’d now forever crave those rough hands and brutal lips, and here I was jittering through the days, starving, going cold turkey on danger itself.

Zara squeezed my arm, softening. “Whatever happens, Tris, your father’ll sort it. He always does.”

I smiled as if that was a comfort instead of a warning. “Yeah. He usually does.”

But as they left, Henry to his room and Zara to her lectures, the guilt settled in, low and sour. Because they believed in the version of me that Charles Hale-Fitzroy had built. And I’d just spent the night trying to destroy him.

Regardless, off I went. Dressed for diplomacy, not comfort. A well picked outfit that wouldn’t dare stain a polished carpet. Chinos. A crisp white Burberry shirt. Navy Ralph Lauren blazer. My better loafers, the Christian Louboutins reserved for dinners, not confessions.

Polished. Presentable.

Well-bred and well-armoured.

I even tamed my hair to look as though I still belonged in his world.

Charles Hale-Fitzroy was rarely at home during the week. He lived between chambers and courtrooms, orbiting whichever case best served his reputation. If I wanted to catch him, I had to go where he held court. Literally.

So I went to Temple.

His private office sat in one a Georgian terrace near Middle Temple Lane. Not chambers, but one of the quieter buildings given to oversight and advisory work. All old authority and polished brass plates. I wasn’t supposed to just turn up. One did not “drop in” on Charles Hale-Fitzroy. But I had a pretext: the Rothwell situation. His secretary nodded to me as I strode in, offering a tight, sympathetic smile reserved for the children of important men. She then announced me and ushered me farther in, which meant the half-open door of my father’s office wasn’t an invitation so much as a command to wait. Inside, I could hear him. The voice of authority itself, discussing something that clearly had nothing to do with me. I didn’t bother listening, instead leant against the panelled wall, pretending to check my phone as if I had anywhere better to be.

Then came the sharp edge of his tone. “Tristan?”

He always said my name as though it were a summons, not a greeting.

I straightened, pocketed my phone, and gave his secretary a polite nod before stepping inside the office. Bookshelves were floor to ceiling, every title a monument to the law; case files stacked neatly; and behind the desk, my father. Immaculate as ever, three-piece navy suit, tie perfectly knotted, not a strand of silver hair out of place.

“Father.”

He didn’t even glance up from the document he was reading. “What’s so urgent it couldn’t be handled by email?”