Page 29 of Crave

Mother sighed, stirring her tea as if to disguise the sound. “Charles, really. It’s too early for a debate.”

“It’s never too early for direction.” Father lifted his coffee to his lips. “He’s twenty-three, Victoria. Most men of his background have already begun pupillage. I had my first case by his age.”

“Yes, and look how joyless you were,” she said, light but sharp. “He’ll get there in his own time. He always does.”

“If you stop babying him. This is all because you refused to stop breast feeding him.”

“Breastmilk gives all the rich nutrients needed for a child up to the age of five.”

“Can we not!” I shuddered.

Mother winked at me. “I gave you the best start in life and now look at you.” She reached over to clutch my jaw. “Such a handsome boy.”

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 & Morgan are prepared to bring you in. Pupillage, then tenancy. You’ll be well placed by twenty-five.”

My coffee turned sour on my tongue.

Of course there was a plan. There was always a plan.

“That’s generous,” I said. “But I’ll make my own arrangements. Like I said I would. Did you mishear me?”