Page 8 of Corrupt

“It is.” He took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. “But influence is only as interesting as the people you share it with. And I enjoy investing in potential.” His smile darkened. “Especially when it comes in such a… charming package.”

I felt myself flush, hating how he could do that with a single sentence.

Wolfe set down his glass, steepling his fingers again, elbows planted on the table with deliberate insolence. “You strike me as someone who could go very far, Tristan. Quickly. All you need is the right hand guiding you.” He dropped his gaze to my throat. “Or holding you.”

A pulse of heat shot through me. Dark. Intrusive. Unwelcome. So I grabbed my wine and took a long drink, letting the burn scrape the image of Wolfe’s hands around my throat out of my head as a shadow fell across the table.

“Elliot.” Wolfe rose smoothly and offered his hand to the approaching suit. “Good to see you. Might I introduce Tristan Hale-Fitzroy?” He gestured towards me. “Tristan, Elliot is the owner of the Velvet Lounge.”

I offered the man a polite smile, but Elliot didn’t return it; he barely acknowledged me. He focused on Wolfe, his grip on the handshake too tight to be friendly.

“Actually, Lord Wolfe,” Elliot leant in, “I need a word.”

Wolfe blinked, mildly annoyed. “I’m rather busy, old boy.”

He looked at me, expecting support, maybe even permission.

“Honestly, it’s fine.” I waved him off, reaching for my blazer hanging over the chair and into the pocket for my phone. “I have a few emails I need to reply to, anyway.”

Wolfe buttoned his blazer in an elegant, irritated performance. “Very well. Nothing’s wrong, is it, Elliot?”

“Just a moment of your time.”

Something in the way he said it lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. Clipped, urgent, almost warning. But Wolfe didn’t seem to notice or care. He merely sighed, straightened his cuffs, and let Elliot guide him away. I watched them retreat towards the bar, Elliot leaning in, talking low into Wolfe’s ear. Then a hand on Wolfe’s arm, steering him towards the back. Where the loos and the dim corridor led in a direction of which I knew nothing about. Wasn’t sure I wanted to.

As soon as they disappeared, my shoulders dropped a fraction.

I breathed.

Checked my phone.

Considered whether I should re-download Grindr. Find a nameless to pretend he was Razor. Then I threw that thought away as quickly as it arrived. Instead, I sent a few messages. A text to Henry, asking how the picket line was faring. One to Zara, checking if Westminster had swallowed her whole. One to my sister, asking how her recent equestrian meet went. Then, I opened my emails and sank into the small glow of normality, of tasks and work and everything that wasn’t this bizarre dinner.

When I finally looked up again, what felt like twenty minutes later, Wolfe still hadn’t returned. The wine in my glass had gone lukewarm, untouched long enough to feel accusatory. The servers skirted my table with a delicate avoidance usually reserved for wild animals and awkward breakups, as if approaching me would obligate them to explain where the hell my dinner companion had disappeared to.

I waved one down anyway. “Has Lord Wolfe come back through?”

She blinked. “Lord Wolfe? No, sir. I haven’t seen him.” A quick glance at another server. Another shake of the head.

Brilliant.

A slow, uneasy trickle settled low in my stomach. Something between embarrassment and… something else I couldn’t name without sounding paranoid.

I caught another server. “Is Elliot around?”

“Sorry, sir, he’s not on the floor anymore.” And off she went to her next obligation.

My mind started doing that thing it shouldn’t. Spiralling.

First: I’d assumed Wolfe’s party favours came through this Elliot. And they were doing the exchange out the back and I’d been half-waiting for his return, wondering, stupidly, whether I would’ve taken something if he’d offered. But with neither of them returning, another thought wormed in: what if Wolfe had taken something? What if he was having a bad turn somewhere in the back? It wasn’t exactly unheard of in these circles. Maybe Elliot was handling it discreetly.

Second: the far uglier thought: had Wolfe actually walked out on me? Had whatever business he needed to attend to been far more important to him than this dinner with me and, even worse, not even worthy of an explanation for this departure? And if so, did I tell Father? Would that start some Hale-Fitzroy civil war about public image and political connections? And why, exactly, was nothing in my life ever simple? Why did every night out have to feel as if it was the start of an internal conflict report?

I sighed and checked my watch; anxiety settling like damp under my collar.

Eventually, I pushed back my chair and stood. I left my blazer hanging there like a pathetic little breadcrumb for Wolfe in case he returned. Then I headed in the direction he’d gone where the restaurant narrowed into a dim corridor lit by soft sconces. I pushed open the door to the men’s.

Empty.