Page 92 of Claim

He stood then and crossed to the window at the balcony, looking out at the lights of Baron’s Court as if he were surveying a city he owned.

“This case you are inadvertently a part of,” he kept his back to me, “was never intended to survive scrutiny. It should conclude. Quietly. Before curiosity turns into investigation.”

“You framed my client.”

Wolfe smiled at the glass. “No. I positioned him.” Then he turned back to me. “Your client is useful, but replaceable. The system requires bodies occasionally. Ones that fit the shape of the story already being told.”

“And the story is?”

“Violence. Drugs. Inevitability. Disposable men who rise too fast and think they won’t fall back down where they belong. There is only so much space at the top, Tristan. Only so many chairs around the high rollers table. You know that.”

I swallowed. Knowing the truth of it too well. From study. From being in Razor’s bed.

“You,” he gestured to me with two fingers, “were not meant to interfere.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“And I respect that. Which is why I’m offering you a way to do it without collateral damage.” He stepped closer. Not invading my space. But close enough for me to feel his breath on my still-damp skin. “You advise a global plea. Manslaughter. Conspiracy. A finite sentence. Your client lives. The court gets closure. The CPS preserves credibility.”

“And you?”

“I stop caring. Which is a rare gift.”

I met his gaze. Held it. “Why? Why are you interested in this client?”

It was a challenge. One I knew he wouldn’t meet cleanly. He hadn’t crossed any lines yet. He wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of an admission that this was all about me. About Razor and me.

“Interest is a mischaracterisation. I don’t care about your client at all.” He stepped closer. Close enough to fill the space between us and stop it being neutral. I could feel his attention like heat on my skin. “I care about variables.”

His gaze travelled then. Unhurried. Assessing. All the way from my bare feet on the rug, up the length of me, over the knot of the towel at my waist, the damp line of skin at my throat, the pulse pounding there. It wasn’t hunger. It was ownership.

I didn’t move. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

“You,” his breath trickled into my ear, “introduced one.”

I stepped back, putting space between us. Claiming it. “And if I don’t take your… guidance?”

Wolfe exhaled, as if disappointed by the necessity of the answer. “Then this becomes untidy.”

“In what way?”

“In the way that requires me to share my concerns with those whose confidence I’m accustomed to holding. About your judgment. Your attachments. Your… direction.”

My throat tightened. “My father.”

“Among others.”

“You’d destroy him.”

“I wouldn’t have to. I would simply stop protecting the version of events he currently enjoys. Let him see you as you are. Emotionally compromised. Reckless. And entangled with things and people so below your station it’s quite degrading.” Wolfe tilted his head. “And in that scenario, it wouldn’t be me who causes the damage. It would be you.”

Rage flared, hot and instinctive, but Wolfe stepped back before it could find purchase. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about him being here, anyway. He existed too far upstream. Occupied rooms I couldn’t enter and conversations that never made the minutes. He spoke to people whose influence didn’t come with letterheads or accountability. If I called the police, it would become a misunderstanding. If I made a complaint, it would be reframed as poor judgment. If I told my father, it would be handled quietly, politely, and in a way that ensured Wolfe remained untouched.

I only had to look at Benji Rothwell to know how it didn’t matter what elite men did, they’d still have an invitation to the top table simply because their names weren’t pencilled in, they were carved in stone at birth.

Men like Wolfe didn’t need to deny allegations because nothing ever quite rose to the level of one. Boundaries were blurred until they were deniable. Reputations absorbed the impact and redistributed it downward. And anything I said would sound smaller than his silence.

So all I had was the law.