Page 99 of Claim

“Yeah.”

He looked away, tension rolling off him in waves. As if part of him had braced for a different answer. Or afraid of what this one meant. I wanted to reach out. Touch his hand. But I kept mine flat on my thighs and said nothing.

Imogen didn’t miss it.

“Right.” She closed her folder. “This is what happens next. The Crown Court will list a Plea and Trial Preparation Hearing. That’s where a formal not guilty plea will be entered. After that, we’ll get disclosure. We’ll see what the prosecution actually has and, more importantly, what they don’t.” She looked at me squarely. “Until then, you comply with every bail condition. No improvisation. No heroics. You speak to no one about this case except us. If anything changes, you tell us immediately.”

I nodded.

“We’ll be in contact.” She stood. “This meeting stays in this room. Tristan will see you out.”

Mercer gathered the papers. Chairs shifted. The moment was over.

Tristan rose, and I followed him. We moved through the corridors side by side, close enough that I could feel him without touching him. The air between us was heavy, charged. At reception, I slowed enough to let my fingers brush his hand.

“Hey.” I leant in, voice low. “You okay?”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then he curled his hand into a fist and stepped away, the contact gone as if it had never happened.

“I’m fine.” He rubbed that hand over his forehead. “There’s… a lot to get through.”

“Yeah.” I angled my head. “Sorry about the whole where-were-you thing.”

“It was always going to come out. I should’ve seen it coming.”

We stopped at the exit. And for a second, he looked at me. Properly. From the worn trainers to the borrowed cardigan, gaze lingering. Then, as if he couldn’t help it, he tugged the lapel of my knitwear.

“You look good in this.”

I arched a brow. “Yeah? You into tough men in cardigans now?”

His mouth curved. “I’m into you in cardigans.” He tipped his head, brushed my chest as if he’d found lint that wasn’t there. “You look… homely.”

Homely.

That word did stupid things to my chest.

God, I wanted to kiss him. Pull him into me. Take his hand and walk out of there as if we belonged to each other. I wanted to show him who I could be. Who I was trying to become. That there was something after this mess—even if I didn’t fully believe it yet.

Then I saw the falter behind his eyes. Fear wearing a tailored suit and calling itself control. Pressure sitting under the skin. Threats had a look to them. You learnt that fast in my world.

I put my lips to his ear. “Call Lennon.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“If you need me. Or anyone.” I dipped back to hold his gaze. “Call Lennon.”

His shoulders sagged, as if something in him finally gave. “I can’t.”

I nodded. Didn’t push. But the words lodged deep.

‘I can’t’, wasn’t, ‘I don’t want to’ or ‘I don’t need to’.

Which meant there was someone behind him.

I turned to go, then stopped. Turned back.

It didn’t matter how big I was. Or the reputation that used to clear pavements. None of that meant a fucking thing right now. Not when he was a sitting duck. I could already see the hook in him. I hated that more than anything. Hated that everything I’d done was to protect those I loved, and I couldn’t do it now.