Page 91 of Claim

“Thanks, Tris.”

The line went dead.

I moved quickly, tidying more out of nervous energy than necessity. I set out two glasses, opened a bottle of wine to breathe, and was halfway through deciding whether I could squeeze in a shower when the buzzer sounded downstairs. That was fast.

“Come in,” I said, pressing the intercom. “I’m going to jump in the shower, door’ll be open.”

I unlatched my door, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight for the bathroom. I couldn’t sit there smelling of Razor, not tonight. I scrubbed myself clean, then wrapped a towel around my waist and ran another through my hair as I crossed back into the living room.

“Sorry, Hen—” The words died in my throat.

Because that wasn’t Henry sitting on my sofa.

It was Lord Wolfe.

Turned slightly towards the lamp, one leg crossed over the other, a wine glass balanced easily in his hand, he perused my file notes spread across his lap, thumb marking a page as he read with idle interest.

My heart slammed so hard it hurt.

“Adrian.” I forced my voice steady. “How did you—?”

He lifted the wineglass, inspecting it as if I’d poured it especially for him. “You let me in. Did you not?”

Cold crept up my spine. “I wasn’t expecting you.” I glanced towards the door, absurdly hoping Henry might still walk through it. “Henry’s coming over. He’ll be here soon.”

“Will he?”

“Yes.” I gripped the towel at my waist tighter. “He will.”

Wolfe regarded me for a moment. “I’m sure he intends to. I’m equally sure you weren’t leaving your door open for any such other person to walk in.” He smiled. “You deserve an evening with friends, Tristan. You’ve earned it.” He then lifted the wineglass in a small, almost congratulatory motion. “Today went rather well for you, did it not?”

I hadn’t ever felt so exposed. Not just because I was standing there practically half-naked in my own living room, in the flat my father paid for, his influence stamped into every quiet, expensive corner of it. But because Adrian Wolfe, who had been whispering into my father’s ear for months, who had wanted me and not been allowed to have me, was now sitting on my sofa while I was still damp from a shower taken to scrub myself clean of the man he despised because I chose him instead.

It was grotesque. Intimate. Deliberate.

“I think we should talk.” Wolfe leant forward to set his glass down on the coffee table, my file notes crumpling under his elbow. “Man to man.” He then sat back. Cocked his head. “You are a man now, aren’t you? I don’t need to ask your father’s permission to talk to you anymore.”

“No.” I stood my ground. “But you do need mine. And you don’t have it.”

“Then perhaps you should be more careful on who you allow into your space. Who you leave your windows and doors open for, hm?”

He held my gaze.

I didn’t move. Didn’t give him anything.

“I tried to warn you.” Wolfe adjusted his cuff as though discussing a missed appointment rather than the direction of my life. “Had you accepted my guidance when it was offered, we wouldn’t find ourselves in this particular configuration of events.”

“What configuration is that?”

He swiped something off his trousers absently. “The one in which your professional enthusiasm interferes with an enterprise operating well beyond your current visibility.”

I scoffed. “Are you suggesting my mind is too small to grasp the scale of corruption inside the CPS and government?”

“On the contrary, Mr Hale-Fitzroy.” He used my surname with care, each syllable a reminder of lineage and expectation. “You’re exceptionally good at mistaking momentum for inevitability. It’s a common error among clever young men.” He held my gaze. “You identify a weak case and assume the law will do what it’s supposed to do.”

I folded my arms, forcing my breathing even. “If you’re here to intimidate me—”

“I’m here to help you,” Wolfe cut in smoothly. “Intimidation would be inefficient.”