Page 36 of Corrupt

I nearly choked on my champagne.

Henry Redmayne, growing a spine in real time. Who knew? Zara must be rubbing off on him through osmosis.

“Tristan, that’s rather frightful.” Mother scolded my uncouth display, ignoring Henry completely. She then eyed the way we were standing shoulder to shoulder, same as we had since prep school. “Why are you two always riding stag on each other?”

Henry coughed so hard he went scarlet.

I blinked at her. “That’s quite a turn of phrase, Mother.”

“It means single, does it not?”

“In some circumstances, yes. But perhaps not when your son is gay.”

“Oh!” She flushed a deep pink, then immediately pointed her champagne flute towards the far lawn. “I really must catch the Montagues before they leave. Do excuse me.” She kissed my cheek again. “And don’t forget to say hello to your father.”

She glided off.

Henry rubbed a hand over his face. “Riding stag,” he muttered. “Do you think I’m considered a stag?”

“It’s been a while since I had a look, Hen.”

He snorted, but his expression wilted. “I’ve only ever slept with Zara.”

“I know.”

He wasn’t embarrassed. Not about falling into bed with Zara and never really crawling back out. That part wasn’t the problem. What hurt was the part he never said aloud: Henry loved her. But he wasn’t permitted to. Families like ours cared more about dynasties than desires. Names over needs. Lineage over longing. Stock portfolios over beating hearts.

I took a sip of champagne, the party sparkling gold around us while my best friend quietly swallowed the life he wanted. At least it wasn’t only me suffocating behind silk curtains. Still, if my little secret detour into the underworld ever surfaced, at least Henry could find comfort in how he hadn’t fallen quite as disastrously off-brand as I had.

“Tris!” Amelia launched up to me, squealing and throwing her arms around my waist. Christ, she was growing fast. Practically all legs and competitive spirit.

“Happy birthday, Milly.” I ruffled her perfectly tousled blonde ponytail secured with a delicate ribbon bow.

“What did you get me?”

“Pushy.” I tugged the long velvet box out of my shorts pocket and handed it over.

She opened it as if paper and bows were a silly nuisance, then gasped. Inside lay a custom-made silver-and-gold horse pendant, shaped into a rearing Andalusian, its mane set with tiny champagne diamonds with her name engraved on the underside.

“Tristan…” She gaped up at me. “It’s beautiful.”

“It reminded me of Luna. Thought you could wear her with you at competitions.”

She hugged me again, hard enough to knock the breath out of me. “Thank you. It’s a hundred times better than Marcus’s first edition Black Beauty.”

“He always was a bore with presents.”

“Speaking of.” Henry tipped his glass towards the oncoming figure.

Marcus. The golden child. The polished Hale-Fitzroy prototype.

“Henry. Tris.” Marcus shook Henry’s hand, then mine. “Good to see you both.”

I wished I could say the same.

Marcus flashed Henry a professional smile. “How’s the doctoring going, Hen?”

Henry’s answering laugh was sharp. “Oh, you know. Twenty-hour shifts. No beds. Patients lined up in corridors. Babies dying because we can’t staff the unit. Elderly people waiting fourteen hours to be seen. And half of A&E showing up because 111 told them hiccups might be cancer. All for what? Fifteen quid an hour and a pension that’ll be bankrupt by the time I hit forty.” He pointed his glass at Marcus. “Perhaps the Home Office could help? Nudge the Health Secretary? Push it up a chain that actually moves?”