Page 42 of Claim

That message was being delivered loud and fucking clear now.

“Thank you, Mr Slade.” Mercer opened the door.

Tristan followed. Then stopped, catching the edge of the door. He let it fall almost shut, enough to cut the room down to a narrow slice of space belonging only to us. Then he glanced through the window, a professional check, before looking back at me. And for that one suspended moment, there was nothing else.

Only us. In here. Together.

He then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card.

“For if you lost the other one.” He held it out.

I stood. Reached for it across the table. And as I took it, I brushed my thumb over his. A tiny, nothing touch that felt like a spark detonating right through my core. His breath caught, too. I saw it. Felt the warmth of his exhale on my cheek. But he stepped back. Professional distance.

I glanced down at the card. “Tristan Hale-Fitzroy. Defence Barrister.”

Saying his name out loud after weeks of carrying it only in my head nearly took my knees out.

“No pupillage.” Tristan tilted his neck to get in my line of sight. “Fully qualified. That took time. Eight weeks to be precise.”

I breathed out, understanding what he wasn’t saying. Then I waggled the card. “Lucky time’s all I got.”

Tristan held my gaze. “Not anymore.”

Then he nodded, gave a minuscule smile, opened the door, and left.

And I stood there with his name in my hand, regret burning hotter for the simple fact that I’d stepped out of his bed the morning that had landed me in here. And why, when he’d asked me to stay, had I thought this would end any other way. That I’d had a choice.

I’d made a lot of dumb decisions before.

None more gutting than that one.

Chapter Eight

Tristan

I fucking hate you for making me do this alone.

I sent the text before I could reconsider it, jabbing my thumbs hard on the screen. Then I slid my phone into my trouser pocket and reached for another champagne flute from a tray appearing at my elbow with perfect timing.

The weekend had delivered me here.

Hampstead Village. My brother’s house, set just far enough back from the Heath to feel private without being remote. A period property with good bones and better taste: pale brick, tall sash windows, a frontage softened by clipped hedging and the quiet confidence of money. A house that had never known chaos, only careful additions. Bedrooms repurposed, not created. Futures anticipated, not improvised.

It was, apparently, perfect for this.

A baby shower meriting a discreet photographer and a whispered understanding that the right angles would later become a double-page spread in Tatler. Less celebration than exhibition. A hand-selected convergence of London’s upper tiers, all loosely connected by profession, philanthropy, or bloodline, and united by the shared instinct to be seen in the correct rooms at the correct times.

A far cry from Pentonville.

Though, the men in there had also been hand selected.

I’d spent the week since leaving Razor in prison trying, futilely, not to think about him. About his bruises. His split lip. His swollen knuckles. The blood on his top. And how when his thumb had brushed mine, I’d almost folded right there at his feet. But also how he’d looked at me with defeat. Confusion. As if he hadn’t quite believed I’d come back at all. And those eyes. God. I hated I hadn’t been able to speak to him properly. Not the way I wanted. The way I needed.

To tell him everything.

But Imogen had been unequivocal. If I wanted to be involved, if I wanted this case, her trust, and the protection of chambers, then I played it clean. Professional only. No blurred lines. No private conversations. No moments that could be questioned, dissected, or used. Mercer hadn’t been there as a courtesy. He’d been there as a structure. As a witness. A buffer between what I was and what I could not be. Which was a man in love with his defendant.

So I did what was required.