Page 112 of Corrupt

The clients came to us.

High-end chemsex wasn’t about volume. It was about scarcity. People who could afford silence and expected it. A vial slipped into a private booth. A bag passed in a bathroom stall with a doorman blocking the door. Cash moved electronically, filtered through fronts that had been built for years.

I would oversee it all.

Every drop.

Every payment.

Every night.

And that’s what I did.

For three…maybe four weeks. I’d stopped counting.

But it was long enough for Tyler to disappear from my day-to-day. Long enough for Shoreditch to settle into a rhythm. And for Pretty Poison to move the way Cormac wanted it to. Quiet. Desirable. Inevitable. I didn’t drink. Didn’t touch anything stronger than coffee. Nor did I switch my phone on while I was out. I didn’t leave a digital trail for anyone to follow. And I started moving the pieces. Quiet adjustments. New routes. New hands. Changes no one really notices, but the hands passing the vials weren’t mine anymore.

Only when I got home did I check my phone.

And yeah, there were messages. I couldn’t reply to them.

The rest of the time, I watched. Counted. Memorised. Faces. Patterns. Who came back. Who lingered. Who asked too many questions and needed reminding that access was conditional. And I set wheels in motion. Got myself ready. And when the numbers finally lined up, when Cormac’s cut was satisfied and the noise dropped low enough for me to breathe, I felt the noose loosening.

Just enough.

Enough to make me think about doors I hadn’t knocked on in weeks.

About a light that might still be on.

Whether it was possible to step into somewhere quiet without dragging the rest of this in behind me.

I didn’t go.

But the thought stayed.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tristan

A month was a long time.

Long enough for the sharp edges to dull. For memory to ease into something manageable. Long enough for me to drift, carefully and obediently, back into the life that had always been waiting for me with its arms politely open.

Which was where I stood now. Tuxedo and all.

In a room where money was everything.

Not loud money. Not nouveau or grasping. But old money. Settled, disciplined, carefully maintained. Linen-draped tables lined the edges of the hall, waiting for the seated portion later, crystal catching the light, place cards embossed in cream and gold arranged with faultless precision. For now, it was a standing reception. Champagne flutes. Murmured conversations. A string quartet tucked discreetly beneath the gallery balcony, playing a classical rendition enough not to offend anyone important.

Inner Temple Hall had been stripped back to its bones. Stone pillars rose into shadow, banners hanging high overhead, centuries of precedent bearing witness as we drank and laughed and congratulated one another on being on the right side of things.

This was my mother’s cause.

A legal access and rehabilitation charity dressed up as a justice initiative. Carefully worded, impeccably funded. Eloise had been involved in the political side of it for months, smoothing pathways, aligning donors. Zara, too, in her official capacity at Westminster. My mother had insisted I attend. My father had agreed because tonight marked his first public appearance since treatment.

And there he was.

Impeccable in black tie, thinner than he’d been before but standing straight, my mother’s hand resting cautiously at his elbow as she spoke to a cluster of senior judges and KCs. She was radiant in white silk, the picture of composure and loyalty, as if none of us had spent months holding our breath.