Chapter 202
Elara
Tristan looked between his grandfather and Julian, and I saw the exact moment his defenses crumbled. "I don't know if it's mine," he admitted, his voice barely audible. His legs gave out, and he slid down the doorframe until he was sitting on the floor. "I don't know for certain. Sloane and I... we were together. But she insisted the child had to be Julian's."
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and I realized he was crying.
"When?" Mr. Vane Senior demanded.
"Seven, eight months ago. Julian was in Singapore for the merger. Three weeks, barely any contact. Sloane called me one night, upset. We had dinner, she drank too much, and..." He swallowed hard. "Afterward, I told her I wanted to be with her. Properly. Not hiding, not as some mistake. I thought maybe she'd finally see me differently."
His voice cracked. "But she didn't. She said it was a mistake. That it couldn't happen again. She was so cold, like I was nothing. Two weeks later, Julian came back, and she was desperate to see him. But Julian wasn't interested in..." He gestured vaguely. "That's when she came to me again. Not because she wanted me. Because she needed me."
Julian's expression had gone completely still. "What are you saying?"
Tristan looked up, his face blotchy with tears and shame. "She told me she was pregnant. That the timing was wrong—it could be mine or it could be Julian's if she could get him to..." He broke off. "She said the child had to be Julian's. For her career, for her reputation, for everything she'd built. She couldn't have people questioning the paternity. So she asked me to get her something. Something to make sure Julian would..."
"The drug," Julian said flatly. "I slept with Sloane for the first time. That was you."
"She told me it was just to help things along. That you two were already together, that this would just make you more... receptive." Tristan's voice dropped to a whisper. "I didn't know she'd use so much. I didn't know it would go so wrong. And when nothing happened that night, when you came back and said you'd stopped it, she was frantic. She kept saying the timing was running out, that she needed—"
The confession hung in the air for perhaps two seconds before Julian moved. The punch came fast and brutal, his fist connecting with Tristan's jaw with a sickening crack. Tristan's head snapped to the side, and he toppled sideways, catching himself on one hand while the other came up to his mouth. Blood immediately began to flow from his split lip, dripping onto the pristine marble floor.
"You helped her drug me," Julian said, his voice shaking with rage. He stood over his brother, his fist still clenched. "You helped her try to rape me. Your own brother."
Tristan spat blood onto the floor. "I didn't think—I didn't know it would—"
"You didn't think," Julian repeated coldly. "No, you just acted. You saw what you wanted and you helped her try to take it, consequences be damned." He turned to Mr. Vane Senior. "You're hearing this, Grandfather? Your grandson helped orchestrate a sexual assault. Against me. For a woman who was using him."
The old man's face had gone ashen, his knuckles white on his cane. He stared at Tristan like he was looking at a stranger.
Tristan struggled to his feet, blood still flowing from his split lip. "Grandfather, please. I love her. I've always loved her. If you'd just let me marry her, I can take responsibility for the child. I can—"
"Marry her?" Mr. Vane Senior's voice was quiet, deadly. "You want to marry the woman who manipulated you into helping her drug your brother? The woman who's carrying a child that might not even be yours?"
"It could be mine," Tristan said desperately. "The timing—it's possible. And even if it's not, I don't care. I love her. I'll claim the child as mine. I'll give it the Vane name. Just please, let me marry her."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Mr. Vane Senior studied his younger grandson with an expression I'd never seen before—not anger, but something colder. Disappointment so profound it had curdled into contempt.
"You may marry whoever you wish," the old man said finally. "On one condition. You renounce your claim to the Vane fortune. You leave this family. You make your own way in the world, without our name, without our money, without our connections. Then you can have your precious Sloane and her questionable child."
Tristan's face went white. "You can't—I'm a Vane. This is my inheritance—"
"Your inheritance," Mr. Vane Senior said, his voice cutting like a blade, "is contingent on your loyalty to this family. You forfeited that the moment you helped that woman drug Julian. So make your choice, Tristan. The money or the girl. You can't have both."
I watched Tristan's face cycle through emotions—shock, desperation, calculation. His mouth opened and closed several times, and I saw the exact moment when self-preservation won over love. His shoulders sagged. His gaze dropped to the floor.
"I..." His voice came out barely above a whisper. "I can't. I can't give up everything. Not for—" He broke off, unable to finish.
"Not for her," Julian finished, his voice flat with disgust. "Not even for your own child, if it is yours. You'd rather have the money and the name than take responsibility for what you've done."
Tristan said nothing. He just stood there, blood dripping from his chin, looking smaller and more pathetic than I'd ever imagined the polished Tristan Vane could look.
Mr. Vane Senior's expression hardened further. "Then you've made your choice. And I've made mine." He turned to face his younger grandson fully. "You're an adult, Tristan. If you want money, you can earn it yourself. The Vane family will no longer support you financially. Your trust fund is frozen as of this moment. Your credit cards will be cancelled by tomorrow. You have one week to remove your belongings from this house and find your own accommodation."
"Grandfather, no—" Tristan's voice cracked. "Please, I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll—"
"You had your chance to do better," the old man interrupted. "You had your chance to be a man, to take responsibility for your actions, to choose honor over comfort. You failed." He paused, and for just a moment, I saw something that might have been grief flicker across his weathered face. "You're not the grandson I thought you were. You're not a Vane in any way that matters."
"Please." Tristan was openly crying now, tears mixing with the blood on his face. "Don't do this. I'll fix it. I'll make it right. Just give me another chance—"
But Mr. Vane Senior had already turned away, his cane tapping against the marble as he made his way toward the grand staircase. "You have one week," he said without looking back. "After that, if you're still here, I'll have you removed by security."
"Grandfather!" Tristan's voice rose to a desperate shout. "Please! I'm your grandson! You can't just—"
The old man paused at the base of the stairs, his back still to Tristan. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, so quietly I almost didn't hear it: "You stopped being my grandson the moment you helped drug Julian. Now you're just a stranger wearing our name."
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate and final. Tristan stood frozen in the hallway, watching him go, blood and tears staining his expensive clothes. When Mr. Vane Senior disappeared from view, Tristan's legs finally gave out completely. He collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor again, his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking with sobs.
Julian watched his brother for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to me and took my hand. "Let's go."
As we walked toward the entrance, I heard Tristan's voice behind us, broken and pleading. "Julian. Julian, please. Talk to him. Tell him I'm sorry. Please."
Julian didn't look back. "You made your choice, Tristan. Now live with it."