Page 42 of Crave

Marcus nodded. “The Home Office wants a decisive win. Public confidence. Optics, Father said.”

“Optics matter,” Father replied. “Justice must look like order, even when it isn’t.”

They shared a look of quiet understanding, a language built from shared certainty.

I scoffed. “Sounds less like justice, more like stage management.”

Marcus’s smile didn’t falter. “And what would you call it?”

“Rehearsal,” I said. “For a verdict already written.”

Father exhaled, the Hale-Fitzroy version of a reprimand. “You’ll understand once you’ve earned the responsibility of deciding who deserves the dock.”

I glanced at him. “I’d rather understand why they end up there in the first place.”

Marcus cocked his head. “Empathy’s admirable, Tris, but inefficient. You can’t build policy on sentiment.”

“Maybe you can’t.” I held my brother’s gaze in challenge.

“Enough,” Father cut in, smooth but final. “Marcus and I are drafting the statement of intent. There’s a press briefing tomorrow.”

“Of course there is.” I rolled my eyes.

Father ignored it. “We could use your mind on sentencing theory once your dissertation’s complete.”

“And If you ever want to see how the law actually works,” Marcus added, “not in theory, but where it keeps the city from collapsing, you’re welcome to sit in.”

“That’s generous.” I ruffled my hair, greasy from the massage and reminding me I was my mother’s son and Marcus was all my father’s. “Assuming the city’s still standing after you’re done with it.”

Marcus laughed.

Father removed his glasses, setting them neatly beside the file. “Tristan, you mistake detachment for cruelty. The law doesn’t require us to feel. Only to act.”

“I know.” I folded my arms, dropping back in my chair like a reprimanded delinquent. “That’s what frightens me.”

Father closed the file. “I trust you have to get back to Eloise, Marcus?”

“I do. Luncheon for Rosewood House, the mother and baby unit.” Marcus rose, buttoning his jacket then dropped a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry to hear about you and Ollie.”

No, he wasn’t.

“Terribly bad show from a Montgomery.” Marcus then nodded to Father and left.

And when the door shut, Father rubbed the bridge of his nose, the gesture usually preceding disappointment. “You don’t have to resent my world. You’ll inherit it soon enough.”

“I’m not resentful. I’m observant.”

“Then observe carefully. Because one day you might be sitting across from men like me.”

I looked at him for a long moment. The cut of his suit, the precision of his posture, the absolute certainty that the world was better because men like him and Marcus decided what order looked like.

He gave a small nod, mistaking compliance for agreement, then turned back to his papers. “You were abrupt with Marcus. Try not to be. He has a lot going on.”

As did I, but my brother’s attempt at making a family that wasn’t getting anywhere was far more important than me being cheated on.

“He thinks punishment is a narrative.”

“Everything is a narrative,” Father said, with the reassuring arrogance of those who win. “The question is who writes it, and whether the audience applauds.”