Page 39 of Crave

Parted, the polite word for heartbreak.

Alejandro dug the heel of his hands into the base of my spine. I exhaled, slow. “And do what?”

“Join Chambers. Work with your father. He’s already spoken to Raynor & Morgan; they’d take you in a heartbeat. It would make him so happy.”

“I’m aware.” The words were flat, dry.

She sighed a delicate little sound woven with manufactured guilt. “You’ve always had such potential, darling. You think I don’t see that? I just don’t understand why you keep running from the life that’s meant for you.”

Because it wasn’t mine.

Every inch of that polished path had already been trodden, first by my father, then by Marcus. The truth was, the law did interest me. I was drawn to the courtroom, the structure of the legal system, and the sheer intellectual exercise of it. I was halfway there already. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was the hand reaching out to drag me across the finish line. I didn't want my father to pave my way. If I was going to be a barrister, I needed to earn the silk on my own terms. Build my reputation from the ground up.

Alejandro paused, as if he’d felt the tension knot and crack under his palms, then continued his slow, expert smoothing.

“I’m not running,” I said, economical with the truth. And I wasn’t used to tasting cheap. “I’m just not ready to be him yet.”

She laughed a soft, crystalline sound making her disbelief perfectly clear. Who wouldn't want to be Charles Hale-Fitzroy KC? Born into wealth, sharpened by lethal ambition, he was the devil in the prosecutor’s chair. He hadn't lost a case in years, maybe ever. Even when he’d stood on the defence side, arguing the impossible, he’d always found a way to win. Defence barristers across the country dreaded finding themselves opposite him.

Not me.

I was actively waiting for that time.

To stand across the courtroom from him. Not side-by-side, like my compliant brother. And certainly not as his son or his shadow. But as his true equal. Only then would I believe the victory, and all the hard work I put in, was genuinely mine, not simply inherited.

“You’re already him, Tristan.” Mother hurled me back to the sterile reality of the spa. “Just a better dresser. With gorgeous hair.”

The towel shifted when I inhaled. “That’s a curse, not a comfort.”

“Oh, nonsense. You’ve always been so dramatic. Come home, darling. You could use the gym. Swim again. You always were a wonderful swimmer. You’ll have space again. Or take the Baron’s Court flat. We’d look after you.”

We’d look after you.

That was her promise and her pretty prison, both wrapped in satin.

“I’ll think about it,” I lied.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Alejandro returned to my shoulders. Firm, confident, grounding. I focused on them, the drag of skin slick with oil, trying not to think of other hands, rougher ones, that hadn’t cared whether they healed or hurt.

Alejandro finished and stepped back. “Take your time, señor.”

He meant me getting dressed.

But what I heard was something else entirely. Take your time stepping back into your father’s clothes.

I took longer than necessary. Towel to robe, robe to shirt. As if it might stop the inevitable return to the surface. The mirror above the dressing bench reflected a man I half-recognised: hair flattened, skin flushed from pressure and oil. Preened to perfection. When I emerged, Mother sat in the lounge area, perfectly composed in her silk wrap, a pot of jasmine tea steaming before her. She always looked untouched by the world, as if chaos simply dissolved before reaching her skin.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“I feel… rearranged.” I poured myself a cup and sat opposite.

“That’s the point, darling. To put you back together.” She reached across the table, took my hand, and gave it a squeeze. “What happened with Oliver? Was it because you were working too hard?”

“I don’t work, Mother. I study. There’s a difference.”

“Not to your body. Stress is stress.” She selected a macaroon, breaking it neatly in half. “And your time is valuable. Did you not offer it?”