Page 127 of Claim

I’d always known Tristan was out of my league. But standing there, surrounded by everything he came from, it felt like being slapped with it. Full force. No warning. I was underdressed, underprepared, and suddenly hyper-aware of all the ways I didn’t fit.

“Hear them out.” Tristan angled his head for us to follow. “I won’t pretend it’ll be all roses, but it matters to everyone that you turned up. That you walked through the door.”

Might matter to them, but every instinct in my body screamed for me to leave. This wasn’t me. It never could be. It was so far beyond my level it was unreal, as if I’d wandered onto the wrong set. And if this dinner was a polite way of reminding me of that, of proving how impossible we were, then I didn’t need to stay.

But I’d waited months to see Tristan again.

So I followed him.

We ended up seated at a massive, polished dining table that could’ve hosted a small conference. Linen crisp enough to crackle. Candles low and steady. Crystal glasses. A man and a woman moved elegantly around us, topping up wine, setting down plates, retreating before anyone had to ask.

The food came in waves.

Tiny bites first. Delicately balanced on spoons, looking ornamental rather than functional. Then soup, poured from a jug at the table, rich and earthy. Then something cold I didn’t recognise, followed by something hot that smelt incredible. By the time the main arrived, perfectly cooked meat, vegetables arranged as if measured with a ruler, I’d lost track of how many courses we were on. Even my brief stint at the Velvet Lounge hadn’t prepared me for this.

Tristan nudged my arm now and then, pointing out which utensil to use and to quietly explain what we were eating. I followed his lead, nodded when others did, chewed carefully, terrified of getting something wrong that everyone else seemed to know instinctively.

Why did there have to be so many fucking courses?

Now I understood why they never actually filled the plates for posh people. You didn’t need to when there were this many of them paraded in front of them, one after another; no one could eat it all. Tiny portions. Perfect presentation. Food looking as though it had been arranged with tweezers.

Still didn’t stop it making my stomach twist.

All I could think about was how the cost of all this, this single meal, could’ve fed a family in my old tower block for a month. Easy. Probably longer. Some injustices never got their day in court, no matter how many men in suits sat around tables like this one.

I’d about wrapped my head around that when the main arrived.

And with it, the reason I was here.

“So.” Charles’ voice cut cleanly through the hum of conversation. “Richard.”

I swallowed a mouthful of whatever I was eating and shook my head. “Rich. Richard was my grandad’s name. Always hated it.”

He tilted his head, intrigued perhaps. “Your grandfather?” He picked up his wine. “What did he do for a living?”

I took a sip of wine to buy myself a second. “Worked the docks.”

Charles nodded, as if pondering that answer and finding it… acceptable.

Better than a drug dealer, I supposed.

I didn’t tell him how Grandad Richard used to skim from businessmen and let shipments through for a few quid on the side. Family trade, that. My nan had slapped him silly every time she found out, but it never stuck.

I kept that to myself.

The table settled into a careful quiet, everyone suddenly very interested in their plates. And I had the sinking sense that the polite part of the evening had ended because Charles set his cutlery aside and rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers over his mouth, not in thought so much as intention. The movement alone shifted the atmosphere. Even the fire seemed to lower itself. Conversation elsewhere died completely. Even Tristan drew in, subtly, his shoulder brushing mine.

I reminded myself I’d stood opposite men with guns. Men who’d buried bodies. Men who’d decided whether I lived or didn’t before breakfast.

This was just another man.

Come at me.

“I imagine,” Charles said eventually, “that you are somewhat uncertain as to why you have been invited to join us this evening.”

I glanced around the table.

Victoria tapped her delicately manicured nails on the stem of her crystal wine glass. Marcus sat close to his wife, a moses basket behind them where the sleeping baby, milk-drunk and happy, slept away, each of them fussing with the blankets.