Chapter 211 Surrendering the Johnston Empire
"The problem with playing the martyr," Tristan said, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck, "is that the crowd always expects you to bleed."
"I am not playing the martyr," I said. I met his gray eyes in the vanity mirror. "I am playing the bait."
He fastened the clasp of the silver necklace. The metal felt cold against my collarbone. He leaned down and pressed his lips to my exposed shoulder. A shudder traced my spine. The bruises on his knuckles were dark purple. The Colombian jungle left its mark on him, but he stood right behind me, an immovable wall.
"He sent killers to our home," Tristan murmured. His breath warmed my skin. "My instincts tell me to lock you in this penthouse, go down to that atrium, and snap his neck in front of the cameras."
"If you snap his neck, he becomes a victim," I said. I turned around on the velvet bench. I framed his rough jaw with my hands. "If he becomes a victim, the board mourns him. I want them to despise him. I want Julian to build his own scaffold."
Tristan covered my hands with his. He turned his head and kissed my palm. The gesture held a desperate, raw devotion. We survived the gunfire. We survived the betrayals. The space between us held no more shadows.
"Elias is eating cereal in the kitchen with Diego," Tristan told me. "He asked if we are building the new airplane today."
"We will," I promised. I traced the line of his jaw. "Tonight.”
The ride to the Johnston Group headquarters passed in silence. Tristan sat beside me in the back of the armored SUV. He did not check his phone. He did not review the morning financial briefs. He kept his large hand wrapped around mine. His thumb traced the ridge of my knuckles. The physical contact anchored me. The corporate world demanded ice, but his touch reminded me I possessed a beating heart.
The vehicle slowed. We approached the massive glass tower of the headquarters.
A sea of reporters flooded the front steps. News vans blocked the street. Barricades held back the shouting crowds. The world wanted to see the illegitimate Whitmore daughter face her reckoning.
Marcus opened the door. He wore a sling over his chest, his face pale from the gunshot wound, but he refused to stay in the hospital. He demanded to take the point position.
I stepped out of the vehicle. Flashbulbs erupted, a blinding, chaotic storm of white light. The shouts of the reporters morphed into a deafening roar.
Tristan stepped out behind me. He placed a hand on the small of my back. He did not shield me from the cameras. He stood beside me, a silent, lethal promise to anyone who dared to cross the barricades.
We walked up the marble steps and entered the main atrium.
The space hummed with nervous energy. Executive board members clustered in small groups, whispering behind their hands. Arthur Vance stood near the front row of arranged chairs. He looked at my black dress and offered a grim nod of approval. He thought I came to beg for mercy.
Then, the crowd parted.
Julian Whitmore walked toward us.
He wore a custom navy suit. A gold watch caught the light of the massive chandeliers. He moved with a relaxed, arrogant stride. He did not look like a man who ordered a hit squad to murder a four-year-old child in a Colombian jungle. He looked like a king arriving for his coronation.
"Minerva," Julian said. He stopped three feet away. He offered a practiced, sympathetic smile. "Tristan."
Tristan’s hand tightened on my back. The muscles in his arm turned to stone. The urge to commit murder radiated from his frame.
I reached back and laid my fingers over Tristan's hand.
"Julian," I said. My voice carried no heat. It held only a dull, hollow acceptance.
"I admire your pragmatism," Julian said. He kept his voice low, meant only for us. "You realized the Serrano Trust is out of your reach. You are saving the investors a long, ugly court battle. Thomas told me you were stubborn. I am glad you proved him wrong."
"I cannot fight a ghost with unlimited funds," I replied. I cast my eyes downward for a fraction of a second, playing the part of the defeated woman. "You hold the Whitmore accounts. You hold the bloodline. You proved your reach."
Julian’s smile widened. The ego fed on the submission.
He believed the hit squad in the jungle scared me. He believed the fake federal marshals at the school broke my spirit. He looked at me and saw a mother desperate to protect her child, willing to trade an empire for a guarantee of safety.
"You made the right choice," Julian promised. "Step down. Give me the trust. I will call off the lawyers. You and your husband can retire to the coast. You will never hear the Whitmore name again."
He offered me peace. He offered a lie. A man who sends assassins does not leave survivors. He planned to take the company today, and he planned to bury us tomorrow.
"The press is waiting," I said.