Page 73 of Crave

To be fair, I’d have rather conducted this via email, too. But I knew it wouldn’t be that simple and I wouldn’t get a reply until Friday, meaning Benji might even come home. Then I’d be invited to dinner to discuss. Far better to get it over with.

I sat opposite him. “We need to evict Benji.” I crossed my ankle over my opposite knee. “Immediately.”

That made him put the document down. “I beg your pardon?”

“Benji. I need him out. Yesterday.”

My father leant back, assessing me like a witness he was about to dismantle in court. “Is this another silly little spat? Like when he borrowed your Tom Ford jacket?”

“No,” I said, jaw tightening. “And he ruined that jacket.”

He sighed through his nose, the faintest flicker of irritation. “You’ve been friends since prep school. What’s he done that can’t be resolved like civilised men?”

“He slept with Ollie.”

For a moment, Father didn’t move. Then he laced his fingers together and leant forward. “That is… very unfortunate.”

I almost laughed. Because of course that was what it was — unfortunate. Not betrayal. Not heartbreak. Yet another logistical inconvenience in the long-running social contract between our families.

He wasn’t wrong about the history, though. The Rothwells and the Fitzroys went back decades. I’m fairly certain my father dated Benji’s mother once. Possibly more than dated. Wouldn’t shock me if one of the five Rothwell boys was a Fitzroy by blood. Benji was the youngest, the reckless one. The bad apple with a family crest shining on his cufflinks.

A bit like me, really. Only he got to be shameless about it.

And now he’d gone and made my rebellion personal.

Father rearranged the papers on his desk, not looking at me. His concern, as ever, wasn’t for me but for the optics. The fallout between families. The awkward whispers in the members’ lounge at the Garrick. “And you’re certain?”

“I have video evidence, should you wish me to submit it for the record.”

That earned a faint scowl. “Not necessary.” He then raised a hand, the universal signal that the matter was over. Closing arguments delivered, verdict passed. “I’ll handle the Rothwells. Discreetly.”

“Appreciated.” I dropped my foot to the floor. “We can have his things packed and ready by tomorrow.”

He nodded once, then leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers in that precise way meaning a lecture was coming. “Whilst not to twist the knife further, Tristan.” He peered at me under his lashes. “Let this be a lesson to you.”

Of course. A moral to the story.

Every heartbreak was an educational opportunity in the Fitzroy household.

“Oliver Montgomery was given a prestigious place at my table. I allowed that for you. He was given access to my contacts, as was his father, which elevated both their standings considerably. Again, for you. I believed in your judgement of character.” He paused, cutting his gaze through me as if assessing damage in a closing statement. “Please don’t bring anyone of substandard quality into my circle again. You deserve far better.”

That last line was delivered to sound like care. Maybe even love. But it wasn’t. It was investment management. Damage control disguised as fatherly pride. I almost let myself be comforted by it. The idea that my heartbreak had at least inconvenienced him enough to notice me. That he thought I deserved better than a lying, cheating, hedonistic social climber. And I wanted to tell him it wasn’t my judgement that had failed; it was the illusion he’d built around it. That maybe the reason I kept choosing people who hurt me was because I was raised to value their pedigree over their humanity.

But I didn’t. I nodded. The good son. Well-bred heir. Swallowed the ache coming from being both seen and dismissed in the same breath. I’d remember it all though. His words, his precision, his belief that value was inherited, not earned.

I understood then exactly why Razor felt like freedom.

And the reason I had to forget him.

I pushed my chair back when a head appeared at the door.

“Charles, a moment?” Edgar Bryant, his senior clerk, stepped in, holding a file as if it might burn him. He then noticed me and smiled tightly. “Ah, Tristan. Hello.”

My father glanced my way. A silent reminder of what he’d said earlier that week: Be polite. Play the game.

“Edgar.” I shook his hand.

“Have we got something?” Father asked.