Page 35 of Corrupt

And appearances in our world were everything.

The heat was brutal. High thirties, July scorch making London feel like Spain. So I dressed accordingly: white chino shorts, boat shoes, a pale blue shirt open at the collar, sunglasses tucked into the V. Then I wrapped Milly’s present, ordered a cab, and arrived in Mayfair fashionably late.

Shockingly, nobody died of surprise.

Mrs Linton ushered me through the house and into the back conservatory where the folding doors had been thrown wide, spilling light onto the shimmering deck and out into the immaculately groomed garden where everything sparkled. People drifted about in creams and tans, dresses and heels, perfectly harmonised casual elegance. Servers glided between them with trays of Pimm’s and champagne. Amelia twirled at the centre of it all, opening presents under the approving gaze of the Hale-Fitzroy social ecosystem. A private chef manned the outdoor kitchen. No charred sausages or collapsing burgers here. Oh no, those cuts of beef probably had their own trust funds.

I grabbed a champagne flute on instinct and found Henry lurking by the rose bushes, looking as miserable as I felt. His parents were somewhere in the hedgerows, no doubt discussing tax havens.

“Hen.” I clinked my glass lightly against his.

“Tris.” He gave me a once-over. “Glad you ditched that oversized black shirt monstrosity you were wearing the other day.”

He meant Razor’s shirt.

And I hadn’t ditched it. It was still under my pillow.

I’d stared at it far too long last night, breathing him in from the fabric, missing the man who’d pulled it over my head, wishing he’d call, knowing I shouldn’t answer it if he did.

I shook myself out of it. “Zara not with you?” I scanned the garden, expecting to find her among the horde drunk on Pimm’s.

Henry went quiet. Too quiet. I looked up at him, and he took a lingering sip before shaking his head.

“You two haven’t—”

“Shhh.” He glanced around as if the rose bushes had ears.

“Jesus, Hen. Everyone knows you and Zara have been fucking since fresher year. It isn’t a secret.”

“That may be. But it’s also ill-advised.”

“She’s working in politics now,” I said. “Trying to leave the scandal of her parents’ new money behind. Surely that counts for something?”

“You’ve met my parents, haven’t you?”

That was a dig. Not at me. At himself. The cage he lived in.

Because of course I’d met them.

The Redmaynes were the same as the Hale-Fitzroys: they measured love and relationships the same way they measured investments. By pedigree and projected return. Henry could march on a picket line every weekend, but he was still expected to marry a woman whose lineage was older than Zara’s, whose wealth had been inherited rather than earned, and whose name came from a nobility rather than entrepreneurship.

Henry wanted Zara.

But he was supposed to choose “better stock.”

I knew that trap too well.

Knew what it felt like to want something our world would never approve of. And worse, not even Henry would approve of who I wanted.

“Come on, then.” Henry gestured with his glass at the crowd. “Let’s…mingle.”

We moved through the people, heads turning, smiles blooming with polished politeness. My mother’s friends. Marcus’s colleagues. Politicians. Judges. A hedge fund manager or three. Everyone dressed in pastel shades, looking freshly ironed by invisible servants. The string quartet swelled under the nearest white canopy; champagne fountains caught the sun like liquid gold. This was my childhood. This garden. This mansion. These expectations.

A thousand miles away from Hackney and Razor’s hands on my throat.

“Darling!” Mother swept towards us, all linen and perfume, air-kissing me twice before turning to Henry. “How are those picket lines, Hen? Must be ghastly standing around out there all day.”

“Not as ghastly as standing in piss, blood, and shit, Mrs Hale-Fitzroy.”