Chapter 10 Friction
I woke up on the floor of my room, my back screaming in protest. I had fallen asleep slumped against the locked bookcase, guarding the entrance to the walls. My neck was stiff, and my mouth tasted like stale shit.
I stood up, wincing, and checked the bookcase. It was still locked. The red light on the hidden panel blinked steadily.
Safe.
But for how long?
I grabbed my phone. Three missed calls from Lonnie. One text from Tristan.
Tristan (03:14 AM): I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the hole in the wall. I’m having the security team rip out the drywall in the master suite today. Stay away from the east wing until the dust settles.
I stared at the screen.
I showered quickly, scrubbing the grime of the tunnel off my skin. I dressed in black slacks and a silk blouse the color of a bruise. I needed armor today.
I walked down to the kitchen. The house was already buzzing with activity. The sound of saws and hammers echoed from the master suite, a cacophony of destruction.
In the kitchen, the staff moved with nervous energy. They knew something was wrong. They had seen the angry master, the crying fiancée, the ex-wife living in the guest room.
"Coffee, Miss Minerva?" the cook, Mrs. Gable, asked timidly. She had always liked me, back when I was the meek wife. Now, she looked at me with a mixture of awe and fear.
"Black, please. And to go."
I didn't want to linger. I had a site inspection at the Opera House, and I needed to be anywhere but here.
But as I turned to leave, the kitchen door swung open.
Ida walked in.
She looked... perfect. Not a hair out of place. She wore a white sundress and a wide-brimmed hat, looking like she was on her way to a garden party. She was humming.
She stopped when she saw me. Her smile didn't falter, but her eyes hardened into flint.
"Minerva," she chirped. "Up early? I suppose old habits die hard. The working class never really sleeps in, do they?"
I took a sip of my coffee. It was scalding, but I didn't flinch. "And the parasites never stop feeding, do they, Ida? You look cheerful for someone whose brother is currently tearing his bedroom apart with a crowbar."
Her smile tightened. "Tristan is just... stressed. He gets like this. Manic. It’s a phase. He’ll calm down, and then he’ll realize who really loves him."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" I stepped closer to her. The kitchen staff suddenly found very interesting things to do in the pantry. "Tell me, Ida. Do you enjoy the show?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The show," I repeated softly. "The one you watch through the walls. Does it get boring? Or do you make your own popcorn?"
Her face went blank. For a split second, the mask slipped, revealing a flash of pure, unadulterated terror. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice airy. "You’ve always had such a vivid imagination, Minerva. That’s probably why you’re so good at drawing pretty pictures."
She walked past me to the fridge, dismissing me.
I watched her back. She was terrified. I had rattled the cage.
"Enjoy the garden, Ida," I called after her. "Watch out for snakes. I hear they’re active this time of year."
I walked out to my car. My hands were shaking again.
The drive to the city was a blur. My mind was racing, replaying the tunnel, the kiss, the lies.
When I arrived at the construction site of the Opera House, I was relieved to see chaos. Controlled chaos. Cranes swinging, jackhammers pounding, men shouting. This was a language I understood.
"Minerva!"
Lonnie was waiting for me by the trailer. He looked worried.
"You look like hell," he said, handing me a hard hat.
"Thanks. You’re too kind."
"I’m serious. Did you sleep?"
"I slept on the floor guarding a secret passage," I said, putting on the hat. "Long story. Walk with me."
We walked through the skeleton of the building. The steel beams rose like ribs against the gray sky.
"Tristan knows," I said. "About the tunnel. We found peepholes looking into his bedroom and shower."
Lonnie stopped walking. "Jesus."
"Yeah. He’s tearing the walls down as we speak. He’s horrified."
"And you?"
"I’m... conflicted." I looked up at the steel. "I should be happy. He’s suffering. He’s realizing his entire life is a lie. But seeing him broken like that... in the dirt..."
"You felt bad for him," Lonnie finished.
"I felt something," I admitted. "And then he kissed me."
Lonnie dropped his clipboard. It clattered onto the concrete.
"He what?"
"He kissed me. In the tunnel. And for a second, Lonnie... I kissed him back."
Lonnie stared at me. He looked like I had just told him I had joined a cult.
"Mina," he said slowly. "This is bad. This is really, really bad. If you fall for him again... if you let him in... you lose all your leverage. You become the wife again. The victim."
"I know!" I shouted, startling a nearby welder. I lowered my voice. "I know. That’s why I pushed him away. That’s why I ran. But he’s... he’s relentless. He’s not the distant husband anymore. He’s aggressive. He’s hunting me."
"Then you need to hunt back harder," Lonnie said. "You need to remind him why you’re untouchable. You need to hurt him, Mina. Before he hurts you."
I nodded. He was right.
"I have a meeting with him at noon," I said. "To discuss the budget. I’ll handle it."
"Handle it," Lonnie warned. "Or I’m putting you on the next plane to Milan."
The meeting was not at the office.
Tristan had texted me the location changes at the last minute.
Meet me at the site. The Opera House. Roof.
I took the service elevator up to the roof level. The wind was whipping up here, smelling of ozone and wet concrete.
Tristan was standing at the edge, looking out over the city.
He was still wearing the same clothes from the night before. Jeans and a black t-shirt, now covered in white drywall dust. He looked rough and dangerous.
"You’re late," he said without turning around.
He turned.
His eyes were bloodshot. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek.
"I found three more," he said.
"Three more what?"
"Cameras. In the master suite. One in the ceiling fan. One in the smoke detector. And one..." He swallowed hard. "One inside the frame of our wedding photo."
I felt a chill. "The one you kept?"
"Yes. The one on the mantle. She was watching me through us."
He looked sick.
"I fired the security team," he continued. "They clearly missed it. Or they were paid off. I have a new team coming in from London tonight. Until then... the house is compromised."
"So sleep at a hotel," I said.
"I can't. If I leave, she wins. She wants to drive me out." He stepped closer to me. The wind whipped his hair across his forehead. "I need to stay. I need to protect what’s left."
"Protect what, Tristan? The walls are hollow. The family is poison."
"You," he said.
I froze.
"I need to protect you," he said. "She knows you know. She saw us in the tunnel. I found the camera there too."
"She saw the kiss," I realized.
"Yes."
"Great. So now she has blackmail material."
"Or motivation," Tristan said darkly. "To hurt you. To get you out of the way permanently."
He reached out, grabbing my hand. His grip was desperate.
"Stay with me," he pleaded. "Not in the guest room. Stay in the city. I have a penthouse you don't know about. It’s clean. No cameras. No Ida."
"I’m not running away with you, Tristan."
"It’s not running away! It’s safety!"
"It’s a trap!" I yanked my hand back. "You think if you get me alone in a penthouse, you can charm me? You think a few sad stories and a haunted look will make me forget five years of hell?"
"I think," he said, stepping into my space, "that you’re terrified because you liked the kiss."
"I hated it."
"Liar."
He didn't grab me this time. He just looked at me. He looked at my mouth.
"You tasted like vengeance," he whispered. "And I’ve never tasted anything sweeter."
The air between us crackled. The wind roared, but all I could hear was his breathing.
"We have a budget to discuss," I said, my voice shaky.
"Screw the budget."
"Tristan—"
"I don't care about the money, Minerva! I don't care about the Opera House! I care about the fact that my sister is a psychopath and the only woman I’ve ever loved hates my guts!"
He shouted it. The words tore out of him, raw and bleeding.
I stared at him.
"You loved me?" I asked quietly. "Then why did you sign the papers?"
He flinched. The anger drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion.
"Because I was a coward," he whispered. "Because looking at you... hearing the rumors... it hurt too much. And I wanted the pain to stop. I thought if I cut you out, the bleeding would stop."
He looked at me with tears in his eyes.
"I was wrong. It didn't stop. It just got infected."
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
This wasn't the arrogant billionaire. This was a man who had made a catastrophic mistake and was drowning in it.
But forgiveness? Forgiveness was expensive. And he hadn't paid the bill yet.
"Infection kills, Tristan," I said cold. "You should have amputated when you had the chance."
I turned to leave.
"Minerva!"
I didn't stop. I walked to the elevator. I pressed the button.
As the doors closed, I saw him standing there, alone on the edge of the roof, surrounded by the city he owned but couldn't control.
That Night
I didn't go back to the estate. I couldn't facing the walls again.
I checked into a hotel in the city. The Four Seasons. Anonymous. Safe.
I ordered room service and sat on the bed, staring at the news.
The photo from the dinner was everywhere. The headlines were vicious.
HOMECRASHING EX OR VICTIM? THE JOHNSTON SAGA CONTINUES.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
Video attachment.
I frowned. I opened it.
It was a video file. grainy. Night vision.
It showed two people in a narrow tunnel.
Tristan and me.
The kiss.
It was visceral. The way he grabbed me. The way I grabbed him back. It didn't look like assault. It looked like passion. It looked like two people who couldn't keep their hands off each other.
Then, text appeared on the screen.
Stay away from him. Or this goes to the board of directors. And your little 'fiancé' finds out just how faithful you really are.
I stared at the screen.
Ida.
She was threatening to expose the kiss. She thought it would ruin me. She thought it would prove I was a cheater, a liar, a hypocrite.
I laughed.
It started as a chuckle and grew into a full-blown belly laugh. I laughed until tears streamed down my face.
She didn't get it. She was playing checkers, and I was playing 4D chess.
She thought exposing the kiss would hurt me?
Exposing the kiss would prove that Tristan Johnston, the man who publicly denounced me, the man engaged to a Senator’s daughter was still obsessed with his ex-wife. It would humiliate him. It would humiliate Lorelei.
It would make me look powerful. Desirable. The woman he couldn't get over.
I typed a reply.
Post it.
I hit send.
I lay back on the pillows, watching the city lights.