Page 115 of Corrupt

“You know him?” I accepted a fresh glass from a passing server.

“Doesn’t everyone? Officially, I know him through Westminster. Unofficially…” She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “He’s a familiar face at The Halcyon Room.”

I lifted my eyebrows a fraction. That was her parents’ venue. The very private, very discreet, high-end sex club where people went when they didn’t want to be recognised for the things they enjoyed after midnight.

Zara smiled into her glass. “He has… eclectic tastes. Likes spaces where boundaries blur a little. Chemistry, you might say. And likes to take it with very attractive young men.” She nudged me. “You into all that?”

I said nothing and was beautifully saved by a spoon tapping against crystal.

A microphone crackled. The call went out for guests to take their seats, and the moment slipped neatly away, folding back into silk and chandeliers and plausible deniability.

The evening unfolded as they always did. Exquisite food. Champagne never running dry. Eye-watering bids on holidays, art, access. A public appeal delivered with the right balance of emotion and restraint. Then the dancing. And I caught Henry watching Zara from the edge of the floor as she laughed with someone else. A tall, polished, and immaculately forgettable older man.

“Can we go?” he muttered.

I wanted to, anyway.

We made the rounds. Polite goodbyes. My parents. Marcus and Eloise. Even Wolfe, who seemed genuinely disappointed I was leaving, asked whether I might stay for the after-party. I declined, declaring I had a mound of case files to prepare for Monday’s court. He’d smiled. Called me a “terribly good boy” into my ear and winked.

Henry and I shared a car. My place was on the way.

He spent the journey dismantling Zara’s dance partner. About him not having a real job. An investment banker, though I suspected he’d switched a consonant somewhere on purpose. Henry saved lives, apparently. That man ruined them. The usual rhetoric. And when the car pulled up outside my building, I braced myself for another quiet night. Another unanswered message. Another exercise in restraint. And told myself I deserved it.

“There’s a man on your doorstep,” Henry slurred, glancing out of his side window to my building.

I glanced passed Henry and my heart stilled.

“Oh, God.” Henry leant back for me to get a better look. “Did I have that look?”

I edged back to my seat as the car slowed. “Sorry?”

“That look. When I saw Zara.” He swallowed. “Is that what I looked like?”

I paused, hand on the door. “Probably, Hen.”

“Bugger.” He tipped his head back against the seat and shut his eyes.

I opened the door.

Henry grabbed my wrist. “Be careful, Tris.”

“I will. And if I’m not, well, it’s a good job I know a really good doctor.”

He didn’t smile when he let me go. “There are some wounds that even I can’t fix.”

“I know.”

I got out and shut the door, peering over the top of the car as it rolled on and away, allowing Razor to step out of the shadows. But I didn’t give him the chance to say anything, as it had been weeks. Weeks of not knowing. Of holding my breath. And I crossed the distance between us and kissed him. Hard, unthinking, needing the proof of him there. His arms came around me immediately, solid and familiar, pulling me close as he kissed me back.

“Trick…”

“You’re okay?” I braced my hands on his chest so I could see his face. “You’re okay, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “I am now.”

I kissed him again, tugging him towards the door, keys fumbling in my grip as if urgency alone might make them behave.

We barely made it inside. Stumbled up the stairs, laughter breaking through the tension when he caught me and lifted me clean off the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist, forehead pressed to his as he carried me down the hall and laid me out on the bed as if I were precious.