Page 34 of Corrupt

“You alright with this, bruv?”

He knew I hated surprises. Hated running gear I hadn’t vetted myself. Hated not knowing what strings were being tied around my neck.

I stared at the duffel bag.

Pretty Poison.

The name itself felt like a dare.

I dragged it under my desk with the back of my boot and sank into my chair, pressing a hand to my forehead. My pulse still hadn’t settled.

“You want me to start pushing it?” Tyler asked.

“No.”

“But Cormac—”

I slapped the armrest before I even thought about it. “You answer to me.”

Tyler froze, then nodded. “Always.”

I exhaled through my teeth, then leant forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Anyone asks, we’re building a high-end client list. Something this premium doesn’t get thrown at any punter. It takes time to roll out.”

Tyler considered that, then gave a nod. “Makes sense.”

Yeah. On paper.

In practice?

I had no fucking idea.

But Tyler left quietly, shutting the door behind him, back to his usual posting.

Silence settled over the office. Cormac thought this was a promotion.

Could be.

Could just as easily be the start of my ruin.

Either way, the crystals in that bag were waiting.

* * * *

Tristan

I can’t say I slept much Friday night.

I did my usual: slumped on the sofa, drinking my way through a bottle of red while some god-awful late-night television droned in the background. And I tried, truly tried, not to keep checking my phone every three minutes, hoping Razor might use the number I’d given him.

He didn’t.

By the early hours I’d given up and dragged myself to bed.

Alone. Unfortunately.

Saturday brought Amelia’s sweet sixteenth. Or, more accurately, Charles Hale-Fitzroy’s annual “strategic social engagement thinly disguised as a birthday party,” with Amelia’s actual joy tucked neatly between rounds of networking.

Tradition was tradition.