Page 78 of Claim

Metal. Plastic seats. A cage welded into the back like a mouth.

They locked me in; the door slamming shut, and the engine kicked over.

As my mobile prison moved, I leant my head back against the cold metal wall and shut my eyes. I didn’t let myself hope. Hope was a luxury that came with interest. Hope led to missteps. Disappointment. Things cracking open that needed to stay sealed if I was going to survive this.

But no matter how this played out, one thing was true.

I might get to see Tristan again.

Not the version my head tortured me with at night. Not the memory that softened when it wanted to ruin me. The real one. In the flesh. Breathing the same air.

My heart did a treacherous leap.

The van slowed, then jolted to a stop. Doors clanged open. Metal on metal. Keys rattling, voices sharp and clipped. And with my hands still cuffed, they dragged me out and marched me inside, where Woolwich Crown Court swallowed me whole.

Right. This was serious shit then.

This wasn’t some local nick or quick hearing. This was where they brought the heavy cases. Organised crime. Conspiracies. The ones they’d already decided were dangerous before a word was even said. This was where people like me disappeared into the system and had to fight like hell to get back out.

They took me straight down to the holding cells beneath the courtroom. Another bench bolted to a wall. Another locked door. Another place designed to make me feel temporary and owned at the same time. The guards stayed outside, and I sat with my head bowed, wrists cuffed in front of me, resting my forearms on my thighs, my leg bouncing out of control. I couldn’t stop it. Nerves were finding their way out however they could.

So I stared at the floor and waited.

When the door opened, a voice I didn’t recognise cut in. “Mr Slade?”

I lifted my head.

A woman came in first. Black robe. White wig set neatly over dark hair. Glasses low on her nose. “I’m Imogen Barrett KC. Your senior counsel.”

She filled the space without trying and Mercer followed behind her in a suit, files tucked under his arm.

“You already know Mr Mercer.” Imogen gestured to him. “And Mr Hale-Fitzroy.”

Then Tristan walked in. Robed.

And for a second, my brain stalled.

Black fabric fell clean from his shoulders, white bands stark against his throat, hair set neatly. He looked taller somehow. More distant. The version of him belonging to courtrooms and judges and rules I’d never be allowed to break without consequence.

I’d seen him naked.

Had kissed every inch of him.

I’d never seen him like this.

And the air left my lungs in a single, silent rush. I had to lock my jaw to keep it from showing, curling my hands into fists in the cuffs as my pulse slammed hard enough I was sure the whole room could hear it.

Christ.

I’d known we were from different worlds but right then, that realisation spat right in my face. There wasn’t a version of me that belonged anywhere near a man who was born to wear that court gown and wig.

He gave me a small smile, though. Polite. Controlled. A nod that said client, not lover. My mouth went dry instantly.

Fuck.

He was so far out of my league it hurt. Standing there immaculate and untouchable, while I’d scrubbed myself with a shit bar of soap and pulled on the same joggers I’d worn all week. I didn’t let the thought spiral. Couldn’t let it turn into something soft or useless. But it lodged in my throat anyway, sharp and unwanted.

“This will be brief. We’re on in minutes.” Imogen looked at me directly. “You didn’t know this was happening.”