Page 55 of Corrupt

“And someone in that restaurant had him quietly removed. In front of witnesses. You.” Marcus’s jaw tightened. “That is not a small thing to a man like him.”

My stomach dipped. “You think he cares about my opinion that much?”

“It’s not your opinion. He cares about perception.” Marcus’s voice dropped further, all civil-service caution. “He doesn’t tolerate being embarrassed. Especially not when dining with a Hale-Fitzroy.”

I swallowed.

Marcus carried on, “Now he’s circling the Home Office. Asking questions. Dropping names.” He pointed at me. “Yours, notably.”

The words thudded through me, heavy and unwelcome.

“Jesus, Tris.” Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Men like Lord Wolfe don’t let go of insults. Or humiliation. Or opportunity.”

The server returned then, placing two plates in front of us. Confit duck with dauphinoise, rich and steaming. Dishes Marcus had clearly ordered long before I’d arrived. He thanked her with a polished smile but the moment she stepped away, the mask dropped.

“And right now.” He pointed his fork at me. “You are all three.”

I lifted a hand and caught the server before she got too far. “Another glass of wine, please.” Coping mechanism. Liquid courage. Call it what you like. “I fail to see how this is my fault.”

Which was a lie. Of course, I knew it was. But boys raised on Latin mottos and legacy dinners are trained early in the art of strategic innocence.

“I didn’t say it was. I’m simply warning you.” Marcus cut neatly through the crisp skin on his duck. “Telling you to be careful. Whoever had him removed didn’t just bruise his ego. They embarrassed him. Publicly. He won’t shrug that off.” He scraped off his duck from his fork. “If he sees you as connected to that humiliation, he won’t confront you. He’ll reposition you.”

I swallowed, the back of my throat tight. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m not convinced Dad is thinking clearly right now.” Marcus popped a forkful into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “He’s under enough pressure as it is, what with the treatment…”

I flinched. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The treatment.”

“What treatment?”

Marcus looked at me for a long moment, then tilted his neck. “Do you not know?”

“Know what?”

“About Father.”

“Clearly not,” I snapped, voice shaking despite my best efforts. “What about him?”

Marcus set down his knife and fork, steepling his fingers beneath his chin in that managerial way he’d perfected by twenty-five. “Father has cancer, Tristan. Early-stage adenocarcinoma.”

White noise burst in my ears. “He… what…?”

“He was diagnosed eight weeks ago.” Marcus shook his head. “He didn’t…fuck, didn’t he tell you?”

I stared at him, everything inside me tilting, sliding, coming apart. “Obviously not.”

Marcus tsked. Tsked. Then went back to his meal. “Typical of him.”

“Does Amelia know?”

“Of course. She sits with him during his sessions.” Marcus ate some more. “Think he prefers her to Mum’s fussing. And I don’t have the time and well…” He waved his fork again, clearly realising the reason I hadn’t sat with him was because he hadn’t told me. So he used the fork to stab a carrot. “Milly can talk about horses and the Olympics. Take his mind off things like work.”

I clenched my jaw.

“Anyway, he’s hopeful. As am I. Best not to let it concern you.”