Page 135 of Claim

“No. I’m…undecided.” I brushed my hair back. “Traditionally, how my family’s structures work, I’d apply to draw down part of my trust to put towards a property. There’s a discretionary fund that covers housing, education, and ‘establishment costs.’ It’s overseen by trustees. My father’s one of them, but he’s not the only one. They release capital in stages. The rest vests outright when I’m thirty. No conditions. That’s usually when marriages happen. Or children. Roots.” I gave a small smile. “Like Marcus and Eloise in Hampstead.”

“So you’re… doing that? Taking some of it. Buying somewhere.”

“That would’ve been the expected route.” I held his gaze. “But I didn’t do that.”

He pulled back slightly, studying me.

“I restructured it.” I took a breath. “Legally. Properly. With independent trustees and financial advisers. I surrendered a chunk of what would’ve come to me at thirty into a separate discretionary vehicle. It’s no longer earmarked for me personally. It’s ring-fenced. Future-facing.” I brushed my thumb over his collarbone. “For whatever we decide to build. What we discussed tonight at dinner. Your charity.”

“You shouldn’t have—”

I kissed him before he could finish. “I’m not cut off. Nor disowned. Which, to be honest, I thought might happen. But I still have an income stream. I have capital interests. I’m not walking away from security.” I rested my forehead on his. “I’m choosing where my money sits. And I’ve chosen for it to sit with you. Your enterprise. Your vision. Your purpose.”

He went quiet.

“In exchange, they transferred the cottage to me. The one in the Chilterns.” I smiled faintly, the memory of it rising uninvited. Of him there. Of us. “It’s no longer held in trust. It’s mine outright.”

His eyes lifted to mine. “You gonna live there?”

“No. Not yet, at least.” I slid my hand up his chest, tracing the line of ink there, feeling his breath shift under my palm. “It needs work. It could be sold. Let. Kept. It’s… an option. Not a decision. My life’s still in London. Chambers is still my career. I’m not disappearing into the countryside.” I held his gaze. “But if there was someone who needed it. For a while. Space. Somewhere safe to land. Somewhere to bring up a child, maybe.”

Understanding danced across his face. “You mean… Keeley?”

“If she wants it. Or if you do.” I watched him carefully. “It could work. She could live there. We could go at weekends. Do it up properly. Together. Or you could stay with her and I come at weekends.” I closed my eyes to stop my babbling. Thing was, I’d been thinking about this for months while stuck in recovery. “It’s only an idea.”

He worried his lip between his teeth, clearly not sure how to hold any of this. I knew that look. He’d never been given anything that didn’t come with a hook buried in it. I didn’t want this to feel like another trap.

And I wasn’t naïve enough to pretend we were guaranteed.

“My father would insist on legal structure around it,” I said gently. “Proper arrangements. So no one could be thrown out on a whim. If Keeley lived there, she’d have occupancy rights. If you did, so would you. It wouldn’t be a favour. It would be formal. Protected. As will your charity.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “So what are you doing, then?”

“For now?” I shrugged. “I’ll rent. Like a normal person. I’m finally earning enough to support myself without drawing down anything. So I will. The trust stays where it is. Long-term. And I live on my salary.”

He searched my face, as if looking for the catch. The clause. The moment where it all turned conditional. “You sure?”

“Yes.” I swiped my nose down his. “I’ve been saying I wanted independence for years. Now I actually mean it.”

He pulled me closer. “Guess that makes us both starting over.”

I smiled into him. “Yeah. It does.”

We lay there for a while after that. The sound of our breathing and the feel of him beside me was an unfamiliar peace of not needing to be anywhere else.

Outside, London carried on. Sirens in the distance, a car passing too fast, life continuing whether we were ready or not. But inside the room, everything had gone still. For the first time, there was no crisis to outrun. No courtroom clock ticking down. No walls closing in. Just the two of us, stripped of the roles we’d been forced into. Not barrister and defendant. Not saviour and liability. Not heir and enforcer.

Just men.

Bruised. Compromised. Still standing.

He shifted closer, tightening his arm around me as if anchoring us both to the moment. And I realised something then, simple and terrifying and true: we hadn’t survived this to arrive at certainty.

We’d survived it to arrive here.

To choose each other without guarantees. Without protection. With no one else telling us where we could stand.

Whatever came next—mistakes, arguments, hard days, fear—we’d meet it on our feet.