Chapter 119: Hundred and nineteen
One hundred and twenty one
Flashback
Third-Person POV
“I swear to God, I’m going to burn the agency down myself,” she muttered, her voice sharp with exhaustion. “Three runway girls quit in the same week. One of our investors pulled out. And the press won’t shut up about how I’m ‘too distracted’ to lead.”
Tristan, lounging on a velvet couch in an unbuttoned black shirt and slacks, swirled his bourbon with disinterest, eyes never leaving her. “Let it crash and burn, Lex. You’ve been trying to hold up a collapsing circus for months.”
She stopped pacing, turned sharply. “It’s my circus.”
“And it’s killing you,” he replied, calmly sipping. “Tell me, when was the last time you slept a full night without waking in a panic?”
Her shoulders sagged slightly. The truth weighed heavy on her spine.
He added, more softly, “When was the last time you felt… seen?”
Her eyes met his, glassy, tired, guarded. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything you haven’t already thought yourself,” he murmured, setting the glass down. “Henry doesn’t see you anymore.”
“Stop it,” she snapped, but her voice faltered at the end. “He’s just… busy.”
“He’s always busy. Isn’t he?” Tristan stood now, walking slowly toward her. “Meetings. Silence. Cold apologies. Does he even ask how you are anymore?”
She exhaled sharply, blinking away the sudden burn in her eyes. “We’ve been together for years. Things change.”
“Love doesn’t,” he said, closing the space between them. “Not when it’s real.”
Her voice cracked. “You don’t understand. He’s been through so much, and I—”
“...have stood by him through all of it,” Tristan finished, his voice laced with something like envy. “And what has he given you in return? Silence? Distance? You’re a trophy on a shelf he forgot to dust.”
Alexandra trembled, anger and sadness fighting for dominance inside her. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“I’m not trying to make it hard,” Tristan whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m trying to remind you who you are.”
She stared at him, lips parted, breath shallow. “You’re his best friend.”
“And you’re the woman I’ve wanted for years.”
The moment shattered all pretense.
Their mouths collided with a force that came from years of buried tension. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she clung to him like he was the last steady thing in a world of chaos. His kiss was fire and fury, and hers was desperation and confession.
He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing and guilt behind them. Her red silk dress dropped to the floor. His shirt was torn off before they reached the bed. The room filled with gasps and moans as they collapsed onto the mattress, their bodies entwining like they were made for this moment and cursed because of it.
Tristan kissed down her neck, his voice rough in her ear. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
Alexandra arched against him, biting her lip. “Then why do I still feel like the villain?”
“Because you still think he’s the man he once was,” he said. “But the Henry I knew the one who used to smile, the one who used to hold you like you mattered he’s long gone.”
She looked up at him, lips swollen, eyes red. “Do you think he ever loved me?”
Tristan paused, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “No. I think he loved the idea of you. The way you made him look to everyone else. But not the real you not this woman right here.”
She blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek.
“I see you,” Tristan whispered. “I always have.”
Their bodies moved in sync again, more slowly now, not just from lust, but grief, longing, and everything unspoken between them. She cried in his arms as he kissed her tears away. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But for the first time in months, she felt something.
Wanted. Desired. Chosen.
They lay tangled in sheets, skin warm and breath ragged, when she said softly, “Do you think he’s even noticed I’m gone tonight?”
Tristan’s laugh was bitter. “He probably thinks you're at some charity event, charming donors. Just another pretty piece on his chessboard.”
“Maybe I should’ve left him long ago.”
“You should’ve,” he replied without hesitation. “But if you had... we wouldn’t be here.”
She turned to him, fingers trailing across his chest. “Do you regret this?”
His hand came to rest on hers. “No. Do you?”
Before she could answer, a sharp creak echoed from the hallway.
The bedroom door slammed open.
Alexandra gasped, snatching the sheet to her chest. Tristan bolted upright. Their eyes snapped to the doorway—and there stood Harry Knight.
Rain still pelted the windows behind him, thunder rumbling faintly in the distance. His hair was damp, as if he’d run through the storm to get here. His face was pale, drawn, eyes filled with something raw and ruthless.
Silence hung like a blade in the air.
“Harry—” Alexandra whispered, her voice small, trembling. “What… what are you doing here?”
Harry didn’t blink. His gaze moved from her to Tristan, back again. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching in his neck.
“I came looking for my brother,” he said, voice like broken glass. “But I found something else entirely.”
“Harry, wait—” Tristan started, his voice tight.
“Don’t. Don’t you even try to explain this.” Harry’s voice rose. “Henry trusted you. Both of you.”
Alexandra’s lips trembled. “Please. It’s not what you—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Harry snapped. His voice was low, dangerous. “You think I don’t know exactly what this is?”
No one moved.
Then Harry took one slow, deliberate step into the room. His eyes blazed with betrayal as he spoke the final words:
“How long have you two been cheating on Henry?”
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