TO LATE TO BEG, SISTER

CHAPTER 6: FORGED EVIDENCE AND BETRAYAL

Under the rain at the orphanage gate, two gangs faced each other, and neither was happy about it.

Garrick had just got off the phone with Arthur Pendleton, and his boss's rage was still ringing in his ears. Then three black SUVs rolled up—the Vance family's fleet—and Tristan stepped out between his bodyguards. Garrick's stomach dropped. Was this rich boy here to defend Julian? At the memory of Boss Arthur's voice ‘touch the man from the docks and I'll bury you myself’ Garrick forced a stiff, friendly smile and hurried over.

"Young master of Mayfair. Here for Julian? Come in, come in. I have business with him too."

Tristan looked at him the way one looks at a puddle. Before Mayfair found him, Tristan had been afraid of East End gangs his whole life. Now the Vance name stood behind him, and fear felt like a coat he'd outgrown.

"Get that look off your face," Tristan said, and turned to his guards. "Break the door down."

CRASH.

Tristan strode in like a landlord and stopped before Julian, who stood in the middle of the room as if the storm had been expected and seated.

"Still brave enough to stand tall?" Tristan sneered. "I am Tristan Vance. The only legitimate son of this family. And you are a surrogate parasite who overstayed his welcome."

The words landed where they were meant to. Ten years of work, repaid with a stranger's coronation. But under the throb in his skull, an older memory surfaced: Lord Vance's hospital room, the old man's whisper. ‘Julian, I have no biological son. Look after this family for me.’

Julian's eyes narrowed.

"My adoptive father told me on his deathbed that he had no biological son," he said, ice slow. "So explain to me how you are his flesh and blood."

For half a second, the color left Tristan's face. Then the mask was back.

"What nonsense is this? Don't change the subject! You left this house with a million pounds of company property in your pocket!"

"I never stole that patent."

Tristan leaned close, mouth at Julian's ear, voice a private purr. "I know you didn't. Because I'm the one who took it from Victoria's desk."

A pause, and then, almost honest, the venom underneath: "You had ten years and threw it away. I had nothing, so I took it. That is the only difference between us, brother."

Then, quick and smooth, shielded by his own body, his fingers slipped the files into Julian's coat pocket—and drew them out again with a flourish.

"Look!" Tristan held the documents high for the guards and Garrick's men. "The thief carries his theft on him! He stole the company's assets!"

Aira and George had come down the stairs. "That's a lie!" Aira screamed. "He planted it! I saw him plant it!"

"Shut your mouths!" Tristan pointed at Julian. "Beat this fraud to a pulp." He paused, grinning. "Sister Victoria only ordered his arms broken. But a shameless liar doesn't need his legs either. One hundred thousand pounds to whoever breaks him first."

The number did its work. Guards and gangsters alike reached for bats and knives, greed winning over fear.

Julian stood very still. His face was a frozen lake. For one second his vision blurred at the edges, Tristan's grin smearing into two, and he blinked it level. Underneath, something that had survived ten years of Mayfair finally finished dying. He had built Victoria's reputation night by sleepless night—taught himself the markets until his name was whispered in them, placed the best talent in her company, drafted every plan she signed. And she, his eldest sister, believed a stranger's theater over his whole life, and ordered his arms broken without one question.

For one ugly second he wanted to finish it. Every wrist in the room, ten seconds, no more. Then he remembered a hospital room and an old man's whisper, and chose to stand still instead.

The warmth went out of him, and what remained was clean and cold.

"Aira," he said softly, not turning. "Take Grandpa upstairs. Let me handle this."

"There are too many of them—"

"Go. Trust me."

She led George away with a heavy heart, but stayed behind the cracked door of the inner hall, watching.

Tristan, furious that Julian still hadn't flinched, rounded on Garrick. "Why are your men standing there? This orphanage owes you money. Slaughter him and take your lesson."

Garrick's breathing went heavy. He stepped forward—toward Tristan.

Tristan smirked at Julian. "You see? You've offended the most powerful gang in the East End. You—"

SLAP!

The sound of palm on cheek cracked through the room like a shot. Tristan's head snapped sideways. His lip split.

Silence. The bodyguards forgot to breathe. Behind the door, Aira held hers.

Tristan clutched his burning cheek and stared at Garrick, eyes wide.

"G-Garrick. Why did you slap me?"