Page 53 of Corrupt

And before I could think too hard about why my stomach had dropped, I hung up and went to face Imogen. Her door was half open, the way it always was when she wanted me to knock but not waste time knocking. I slipped inside, trying to marshal my thoughts into something resembling competence.

She finished the sentence she was writing, full stop, pen down, then raised her eyes to me. “Sentencing note?”

I handed it over. “Updated after this morning’s hearing.”

She flipped through it with the same clinical dissection she’d use on a hostile witness, tapping her nails on a paragraph. Tap. Tap.

“This is tighter.” Approval. Finally. The faintest trace, but enough to warm my chest. “Your structure’s improving.”

“I’ve been practising.”

“I can tell. Good.” She closed the file. “You’re presenting with me on Monday.”

My heart jumped. “Presenting?”

“Five-minute introduction. Nothing earth-shattering. But you’ll be on your feet.” She fixed me with a cool, incisive stare. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

It was everything I wanted.

It was everything I’d worked for, begged for, bled for.

“Yes.” I nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Then you’ll need to stay focused this weekend.” Another look. Measured. Weighted. Making me feel naked and seen in ways I didn’t like. “You’ve been… distracted.”

A pulse of panic thudded in my throat. “I’m fine.”

“Mmm.” Her gaze didn’t soften. It sharpened. “Tristan, you’re talented. Exceptionally so. But talent cracks if something else is pulling at it.”

I swallowed. “It won’t affect Monday.”

“I hope not.” She handed the file back. “Go. I have a conference.”

I turned to leave, when she called over: “And Tristan?”

I glanced back and saw her smile. Genuine. Possibly even a smirk.

“You’ll be as devastating as your father one day.” She winked. “Our side of the court.”

A ghost of a smile climbed my lips. “Thank you.”

I left Imogen’s office with my pulse still tapping under my skin, grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair, and checked Marcus’s text.

Quill & Spire. Don’t be late.

Of course he picked a place with a name promising brandy, leather seating, and gentle reminders of one’s tax bracket. It was a venue where even the pepper grinders probably had security clearance. I let out a sharp breath, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stepped out into the courtyard. The late-afternoon sun hung low and heavy, turning the limestone gold. Barristers swept past in dark suits, gowns slung over arms like black wings. They moved quickly, efficiently, as if the whole of legal London was one enormous organism and I was just a tired cell inside it.

I crossed the square and headed out onto Fleet Street. The city buzzed with Friday energy: clerks spilling out of pubs, cyclists weaving through taxis, the hum of commuters desperate to get home or get drunk. Preferably both. I wanted to join them. To be another anonymous body with a pint instead of a head full of fault lines and a man I couldn’t stop thinking about.

Razor wouldn’t be coming to me tonight. Fridays were his busiest nights. Mine too, once upon a time. He’d be out there somewhere—running clubs, controlling chaos, not thinking about me.

Not the way I thought about him.

I cut down towards the Strand, dodging tourists and briefcases, letting the city swallow me whole. The closer I got to the restaurant, the sharper the ache under my ribs grew. Quill & Spire sat wedged between a private members’ club and a florist so expensive it only sold five types of flowers. Its windows glowed warm and amber, with the lighting deliberately low so no one noticed their own moral erosion. Inside, it was all polished mahogany and quiet money. White tablecloths. Crystal glasses. The faint smell of oak, wine, and ambition.

Marcus was already seated.

That alone threw me. He usually worked later than I did and got paid handsomely for it. Unlike me, budgeting my way through pupillage on Inns scraps while my trust fund sat locked behind marriage, thirty, or a devastatingly compelling argument.