Page 19 of Corrupt

Wolfe paused. “Henry Redmayne?”

“That’s right. And since he insists on escort duty after a few of my more… unfortunate dating experiences, the least I can do is support his fight for fair pay and humane working conditions.”

“Decent friend.” What he meant was: inconvenient obstacle.

I offered a bright, empty smile. “Perhaps we should rearrange? I promise not to tell my father you abandoned me mid-dinner.”

A flicker crossed Wolfe’s face. Annoyance? Relief? Hard to tell with men like him.

“Of course. We’ll arrange something far more… memorable.” He extended his hand. I shook it reluctantly, but he didn’t release. Instead, he pulled me in, his lips brushing my ear. “Perhaps we could skip dinner entirely and go straight to… dessert.”

My stomach twisted.

He pulled back, winked, then gestured towards Piccadilly Circus station glowing at the corner of the street.

“Go on. I’ll see you safely there.”

What choice did I have? Argue on the pavement while he loomed over me? No. I needed out of his orbit. So I headed towards the station lights, with Piccadilly Circus glowing behind me. Neon, tourists, hot July air clinging to the skin as if the city were sweating. Wolfe’s gaze burnt between my shoulder blades the whole time, and I was thankful when I could get underground.

Westminster station spat me out onto the Embankment. Parliament loomed. The river stank faintly of algae and heat. I ducked into the late-night Tesco, grabbed crisps, Lucozade, flapjacks. Strike fuel. Then crossed the bridge towards St Thomas’s, where the junior doctors’ picket line stretched beneath the streetlamps. Even at this time of night the line was alive. High-vis vests. Homemade placards. The rhythmic chant carrying across the Thames. Cars beeped in support, a warm wave of sound rising above the traffic. And I found Henry in the middle of it all, sweat-soaked scrubs under an NHS-branded vest, hair pushed back haphazardly. He brightened the moment he saw the plastic bag.

“Lifesaver.” He took the bag from me and passed out the snacks to exhausted colleagues. “How was dinner with Lord Wolfe?”

A lorry honked; Henry spun, waving his placard—£15 an hour isn’t fair pay for seven years of training. Someone behind him yelled, “Thank you!”

I agreed with the sentiment. Hard not to, when I saw how hard Henry worked for pennies. Though the hypocrisy wasn’t lost on me. Henry and I were both cushioned by family money while shouting about wages. And still: as a pupil barrister, I was on less than the juniors here. Barely twenty grand for six-day weeks, late nights, and wearing suits costing more than my monthly rent.

“It was… eventful.” I bit my lip.

“Oh, Tris. You didn’t—” Henry then checked out my clothes. “That can’t be your shirt, surely?”

I pulled my blazer tighter around myself. “It was all I had.”

“Go shopping, Tris. Or get your mother to go for you.”

Before he could say anything else, the chanting surged into song of an improvised chorus someone had started down the line. Saved through collective bargaining.

“I’ll catch you Saturday,” I called over it.

“Right-oh!” Henry yelled back, joining in with the singing, raising his placard high as another car beeped its support.

So I crossed the bridge and got back on the Piccadilly Line with its usual late-night half-asleep tourists slumped over their bags, someone eating something aggressively smelly with zero remorse. The carriage lights glimmered as the train clattered out of neon-lit central London and towards the quieter, saner stretch of West London I called home. A few stops later, I stepped out into the soft hush of Barons Court. Cooler air.

I walked the familiar route back to my flat, the second floor of a converted Edwardian townhouse, its red brick glowing faintly under the streetlamps, and climbed the steps to the entrance, let myself into the narrow communal hallway, then up the creaking staircase to my floor. Unlocked my door. Stepped inside the quiet, lived-in stillness of my space.

And no, I’m not even embarrassed to admit it.

I kept Razor’s shirt on when I crawled into bed.

Of course I did.

* * * *

The next morning, I peeled myself out of Razor’s shirt and left it inside my sheets as if it was him waiting for me there. I reluctantly got in the shower, into a suit, straightening out my spine as court demanded composure, my body humming with everything I shouldn’t be thinking about.

Today was Highbury. One of those mornings where I didn’t know what cases would land in my hands until I arrived. My coffee machine took its time spitting out the only blend strong enough to get me through a youth list, and I tightened my tie, Windsor knot naturally, when my phone buzzed across the kitchen counter.

Father.