Page 39 of Claim

The one he’d worn that night. When I’d pulled him out of my club and made him stay with me til Sunday. The one I’d peeled off him, folded neatly, and kept it that way so he could put it back on when the world called him to order again.

Had he chosen it on purpose?

To throw me. Remind me. Fuck with my head.

“Please, sit, Mr Slade.” Mercer gestured to the chair opposite them.

I sat.

They sat.

My eyes stayed on Tristan.

“Before we go any further,” Mercer smoothed his tie, “I want to be clear about what this meeting is and what it isn’t. This is a legal conference. Anything discussed here is confidential and legally privileged.”

I barely heard him. All I kept doing was staring at Tricky.

He stared right back.

And even though his stare was subtle, done with discipline and control, I saw him take me in. My split lip. The bruise darkening under my eye. The jumper that wasn’t clean anymore. The grey joggers. The full, ugly state of me.

His chest lifted.

I saw it because I couldn’t stop looking at him.

“We’re not here to question you,” Mercer continued. “We’re here to stabilise your position.”

I dragged my gaze away from Tristan to the man speaking. “Stabilise?”

What? Like I was leaking.

“That’s right.” Mercer gestured at Tricky. “Mr Tristan Hale-Fitzroy is here as junior counsel.”

My eyes snapped back to him.

There was the smallest shift in Tristan’s mouth. Not a smile as such. Not quite. But the whisper of one that might have been familiar.

Then Mercer opened the file.

“You’ve met previously.” He motioned between us, neat and meaningless, as if he were talking about a networking event. “But for the purposes of this conference, he’s here in a professional capacity only.”

Wow. Met.

Down a dark alley, sure. With him on his knees, looking up at me as if he wanted to ruin himself. In the back room of a club with the bass shaking the walls, my name breaking out of him as if it didn’t belong to anyone else. Across weekends where we’d begged, shaken, cried, laughed, came apart in each other’s arms and blurred every line I thought I had.

But yeah…

Met.

Tristan shifted, then looked down at his file. Armour back in place.

“Your previous defence team has stepped back.” Mercer glanced up to check I was still present. “And you are currently without active representation?”

I dragged my gaze away from Tristan, clenched my hands into fists, felt the skin pull tight over swelling knuckles. “Yeah.”

“That’s the first thing we’re addressing.” Mercer turned a page. “At this stage, we’re not advising pleas. Not making promises. We’re assessing whether we can act and whether you want us to.”

I tipped my head. “If I want you to?”