Page 75 of Claim

“Remand justification hasn’t shifted,” Imogen said. “They’ll argue seniority again. Risk of interference. Gravity.”

“They always do,” Mercer agreed. “But they’re light on specifics.”

“Light doesn’t mean weak,” she said coolly. “It means they think they don’t need to convince.”

I swallowed and nodded, forcing my focus back to the page in front of me. Razor’s name sat there in block capitals, clinical and impersonal. A defendant shaped entirely by allegations. I underlined a paragraph about the absence of further charges when the door to chambers opened. Not our door. The outer one. A voice carried. One belonging to someone who expected to be welcomed.

Then Marianne, pitched a fraction too carefully, called through to us, “Lord Wolfe to see Ms Barrett.”

Imogen paused her pen mid-line. Mercer straightened. And I felt the cold, instinctive tightening in my chest, as if something sharp had brushed past my ribs.

Wolfe.

He hadn’t been a presence for weeks. A deliberate absence. And a name I refused to think too hard about, because thinking about him felt dangerously close to inviting him back into the room. I’d ignored every attempt he’d made to reinsert himself into my life. Messages. Emails. Calls that went unanswered. All framed as mentorship, concern, continued interest in my career. The last time I’d seen him was at the baby shower. When I knew he had a hand in this case. This case. The one laid out in cold black type between us now.

“I didn’t invite him.” Imogen was on her feet.

“Didn’t think you would,” Mercer replied.

“I’ll deal with it.” She glanced at me. A look too quick to be casual. “Stay here.”

I nodded automatically.

She was halfway to the door when Wolfe appeared in it.

He didn’t wait to be announced. Lord Wolfe never needed an invitation. The world was his to roam wherever he saw fit, and he stood framed by oak and glass as if he’d been built for this place, too. Tailored coat, silvered hair immaculate, expression faintly amused, like a man interrupting something he already knew the outcome of.

His gaze took in the room.

Then it settled on me.

No surprise.

“Tristan.” He smiled. “How very predictable of us.”

Imogen recovered first. “Lord Wolfe. You should have called.”

He smiled at her; all charm and teeth. “I was in the area. I thought I’d pay my respects.”

Even Mercer joined in. “This isn’t a social call.”

“Few things ever are.” Wolfe drifted his attention back to me, and I felt it like pressure around my throat. “You look well, Tristan. Grounded. Focused. I hear you’ve been busy.”

I said nothing. There was no safe answer.

He stepped further into the room without being invited and caught sight of the papers on the desk.

“Difficult case.” He inhaled the air as if sniffing out everything we were planning to argue. “These organised crime matters tend to be… untidy. So many moving parts. So many people invested in a particular outcome.”

Imogen cut in sharply. “If you have business with chambers, Adrian, I’d prefer you state it plainly.”

“Of course.” He inclined his head, gracious. “I’m advising on a policy review. Witness handling. Public confidence. The usual headaches.”

My jaw tightened.

Witness handling.

He hadn’t said Razor’s name. He hadn’t needed to.