Page 128 of Claim

Then I looked at Tristan next to me.

He lifted one corner of his mouth. For me. A small, private encouragement.

“You could say that.” I turned back to Charles. “Not every day you get invited to a seven-course dinner by a man who once tried to put you inside.”

I’d never been good at dancing around elephants.

A dash of discomfort rippled through the room, but Charles inclined his head.

“Quite.” He took a measured sip of wine, set the glass down, then tapped his lips again. “And for the record, we do not make a habit of this. You are, Mr Slade, an exception to rules we generally believe exist for very sound reasons.” His gaze didn’t leave mine. “We could describe this evening as a lapse in judgment. We could attempt to pretend we do not know who you are or the world you have come from. But that would be dishonest. And it would be a disservice to the world which has afforded my family its position… and, by extension, afforded our son his.”

His eyes shifted briefly to Tristan, then returned to me.

“So, if you will allow it,” Charles said evenly, “I would prefer to speak plainly.”

I swallowed, then nodded once. “I’d appreciate that. I left school at fifteen and I weren’t great at it when I was there, so it’s hard to keep up when people weaponise vocabulary.”

A soft, amused breath left Tristan beside me as he lifted his glass and took a drink.

“Very well.” Charles remained unruffled. “Then I shall endeavour to keep matters at a… workable level.” He let the room settle around him, probably like he did in court, everyone waiting for his opening statement. “For the avoidance of any doubt, I removed myself entirely from anything touching your case the moment my son was taken. That was not a difficult ethical decision.”

I believed him.

“However,” he continued, “over the past few months, while all of this has been unfolding, I used the time afforded to me to learn. To ask questions discreetly of those I am… positioned to speak with.” A faint emphasis there. “I have gained a clear understanding of the structure and mechanics of the operation you were involved in. From the top. All the way down. I have also spoken at length with Tristan during his recovery here from what were, by any standard, very significant injuries.”

I glanced sideways. Tristan met my look with a small, unapologetic smile.

“And,” Charles gestured across the table, “Eloise has been kind enough to coax some degree of insight from your sister.”

I dug my fingers into my thigh beneath the table. Of course she had. Nothing ever came without strings. Keeley and Maisie hadn’t been rehoused out of kindness, she’d been used as leverage. And that thought, that once again the people I loved were nothing but bargaining chips, lodged hard in my chest. My family, reduced to context. To insight. Something to use.

Then Tristan slid his hand over mine.

I froze for a bit before curling my thumb gently around his. The simple contact grounded me in a way words never had. And whatever came next, I wasn’t taking it alone.

“I have learnt,” Charles went on, “that at an age not much older than my daughter is now—”

I peered over at Amelia. She gave me a brief smile. And looked way too young to be hearing any of this. Too clean. Too untouched. Yet she was Keeley’s age. Keeley had lived this. And like the bloke said, I was her age when my life went full fucking tilt.

“—you assumed most of the responsibility for your household. That you intervened in a catastrophic situation involving your mother, one which altered your view of people and power irreversibly. That you then took near-sole responsibility for a six-year-old child while your mother spiralled.”

I bowed my head, the burden of it pressing down as heavily as it had since that day.

“You were exploited,” Charles said plainly. “By those in positions above you. What should have been recognised as bravery was instead used as leverage. Had your circumstances been different, I have little doubt you would be a very different man. That assessment is not born of sentiment. Though, despite whatever assumptions may be made about those of us raised in privilege, we have it. But this has been drawn from testimony.”

I swallowed.

“Do not misunderstand me, Mr Slade.” He held my gaze, steady and unyielding. “I was not searching for reasons to vindicate you. I was searching for evidence that my son was misguided.”

He drew a breath then, deeper than before, chest rising. A faint crackle caught in it, followed by a cough he tried to suppress. Victoria was instantly there with a napkin, which he waved away with quiet irritation. I’d forgotten about the cancer. Impressive, really. How he could fold something like that neatly inside a tailored suit and still hold a room.

He took a sip of water before continuing, his voice unchanged.

“I also read a statement from an associate of yours. One which detailed how you ran your line. How you deliberately removed children from its proximity. How you limited involvement to those who understood precisely what they were entering.” He paused long enough for the significance of that to make itself known. “And how you routinely placed yourself in harm’s way rather than delegating risk to others. How you accepted responsibility when matters went wrong.”

God. I wanted this to stop.

“All behaviours consistent with a young man attempting, within deeply flawed circumstances, to retain a sense of personal code.” He tilted his head. “Is that a fair summary, or would you like an opportunity to clarify any part of what I have said?”