Chapter 29 Drunken Confession
I fled to the hotel because I was a coward.
It was a simple, ugly truth. After the press conference, after the high of destroying The City Gossip, and after the quiet intimacy of the yellow room, I had panicked. The reality of sleeping in the Master Suite, in the bed where I had conceived the child Ida stole from me was suddenly too heavy to bear.
So I had told Tristan I needed to pack. I told him I needed one last night in neutral territory to gather my strength before fully committing to the fortress.
He had let me go. He looked disappointed, standing on the porch of the estate as I drove away in the rental car, but he hadn't stopped me.
Now, it was 2:00 AM.
I was sitting on the floor of my suite at the Four Seasons, surrounded by half-packed suitcases. Outside, the city was weeping, a relentless drizzle that blurred the lights of the skyline into streaks of neon and gray.
I held a glass of water in my hand, staring at the wall. My phone was silent. No texts from Lorelei. No threats from Ida. Just a void.
Then, a fist hammered against my door.
It wasn't the rhythmic knock of room service. It was the desperate, uncoordinated pounding of a man who was losing his balance.
I froze.
"Mina!"
The voice was muffled, slurred, but unmistakable.
Tristan.
I scrambled up, tightening the belt of my silk robe. I walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
He was leaning against the doorframe, his forehead resting on the wood. He was still wearing the suit from the press conference, but the jacket was gone. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, stained with something dark, wine or rain. His hair was a wet, chaotic mess.
I undid the latch and opened the door.
He stumbled forward, catching himself on the entryway table. The smell hit me instantly.
"Tristan?" I whispered. "What are you doing here?"
He looked up. His eyes were glazed, swimming with a toxic mix of alcohol and grief. He looked at me as if he wasn't sure I was real.
"You left," he said. His voice was thick, heavy. "You said... you said you were coming back. But you left."
"I told you I needed to pack," I said, reaching out to steady him. His skin was burning hot. "Tristan, you’re drunk."
"I am... significantly impaired," he agreed, stumbling past me into the room. "I drank the good scotch. The one my father saved for my wedding. I figured... since the marriage is dead, I might as well drink the eulogy."
He walked toward the bed, swaying. He looked at the suitcases on the floor.
"You're leaving," he accused, pointing a shaking finger at the bags. "You're running away. Again."
"I am not running away," I said, closing the door and locking it. "I’m packing. To move in. Like we discussed."
"Liar," he laughed. It was a harsh, broken sound. He turned to face me, his legs unsteady. "You’re always running, Minerva. You run to Milan. You run to Lonnie. You run to hotels."
"I run to survive!" I snapped, my patience fraying. "Do you have any idea what it’s like to be in that house? To sleep down the hall from the ghost of your murderer sister?"
"She’s not a ghost!" he shouted. The anger flared sudden and violent. "She’s out there! She’s waiting! And you left me alone in that godforsaken mausoleum to wait for her!"
He took a step toward me, then staggered. I caught him by the arms. He was heavy, a dead weight of muscle and despair.
"Sit down," I ordered, guiding him to the edge of the bed. "Before you fall down."
He sat. He put his head in his hands, his fingers tangling in his wet hair.
"I hate it," he whispered. "I hate the house. I hate the yellow paint. I hate that I can still smell her perfume in the hallway."
I stood in front of him, looking down at the crown of his head. My heart ached for him, a sharp, physical pain in my chest. He was the Titan of Industry, the man who made senators tremble, and right now, he was just a boy who had lost his mother twice.
"We’ll burn the perfume out," I said softly. "We’ll strip the halls. We’ll make it new."
He looked up. His eyes were wet.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping me?" He searched my face, desperate for an answer. "I destroyed you, Mina. I signed the papers. I let them throw you out. I believed the lie."
"I know."
"So why?" He stood up, unsteady but determined. He grabbed my shoulders. "Why didn't you let me rot? Why did you come back? Is it revenge? Is it just to show me what I lost?"
"Tristan, stop."
"Tell me!" he shook me slightly. "I need to know! Did you ever love me? Or was I just... was I just a ticket out of poverty? Was Ida right?"
The question hung in the air, sucking the oxygen out of the room.
Was Ida right?
That was the poison seed she had planted five years ago. That I was a gold digger. That I didn't have the capacity for real love.
I looked at him. I saw the insecurity that Ida had nurtured in him like a bonsai tree, trimming away his confidence until he needed her to breathe.
"You think I didn't love you?" I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.
"You were so cold," he whispered. "So perfect. You never fought. You never screamed. You just... accepted everything. Even the divorce. You signed the papers and walked away without a tear."
"I didn't cry because you were watching!" I screamed.
I shoved him back. He stumbled, hitting the back of his knees against the mattress and sitting down hard.
"I didn't cry because Ida was watching!" I yelled, the dam finally breaking. "I walked out of that house and I vomited in the bushes, Tristan! I slept in a bus station and I cried until my eyes bled! I loved you so much it felt like I was being flayed alive!"
I paced the room, my hands shaking.
"You want to know if I loved you?" I laughed hysterically. "I came back. I came back to a city that hates me, to a house that tried to kill me, to a man who threw me away like garbage. I came back to save you from a psychopath who murdered our child! If that isn't love, Tristan, then tell me what the hell it is!"
He stared at me. His mouth was slightly open. The drunkenness seemed to evaporate, replaced by shock.
"You..." He swallowed. "You loved me?"
"I worshipped you," I whispered, the anger draining out of me, leaving only exhaustion. "And that was my mistake. I loved you more than I loved myself. So when you told me to leave... I left. Because I thought you knew best."
I walked over to the window, turning my back on him. I couldn't look at him.
"But I’m not that girl anymore," I said to the rain. "I don't worship you, Tristan. I don't even like you half the time. But I will not let her win. I will not let her take you."
Silence.
I waited for him to speak. To apologize. To leave.
I felt a hand on my shoulder.
He turned me around.
He wasn't looking at me with shock anymore. He was looking at me with a terrifying clarity.
"You love me," he said. Not a question. A discovery.
"Loved," I corrected. "Past tense."
"Liar."
He reached out and touched my face. His thumb traced the bruise under my eye.
"You still love me," he murmured. "I can see it. It’s in the way you fight for me. It’s in the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching."
"Tristan, you’re drunk."
"I’m drunk," he agreed. "But I’m not blind. Not anymore."
He leaned in. He rested his forehead against mine. He smelled of scotch, but underneath that, he smelled of him. The scent I had missed for five years.
"I never stopped," he whispered. "Even when I hated you... I loved you. I hated you because I loved you. I couldn't handle the thought that you had betrayed me."
"I didn't."
"I know. God, I know."
He moved his hands down to my waist. He pulled me closer.
"Can I stay?" he asked. "Please. I can't go back there tonight. I can't be alone."
I looked at him.
He was asking for sanctuary. He was asking for the one thing I had sworn never to give him again: access.
But the yellow room was waiting. The war was waiting.
Tonight... tonight was just a ceasefire.
"You can stay," I said. "But you sleep on the couch."
He smiled. A crooked, sleepy smile. "The couch. Right."
He stepped back. He looked at the bed. Then at the couch in the sitting area.
He walked to the couch. He sat down. He started to unbutton his shirt.
"Do you need help?" I asked, seeing his fingers fumble.
"I got it," he muttered.
He didn't got it. He managed two buttons before his hands dropped. He leaned back, closing his eyes.
"The room is spinning," he announced.
I sighed.
I walked over to him. I knelt between his legs.
"Hands up," I said.
He lifted his hands obediently.
I unbuttoned his shirt. I pulled it off his shoulders. His skin was warm, tanned. I tried not to look at the muscles of his chest, the dusting of dark hair. I tried to be clinical.
"Pants," I said.
He fumbled with his belt. He got it open. He pushed his slacks down.
I helped him pull them off. He was left in his boxer briefs.
I grabbed the duvet from the bed. I draped it over him.
"Lie down," I said.
He lay down on the velvet sofa. It was too short for him. His feet hung off the end.
I tucked the duvet around his shoulders.
"Mina?"
"Yeah?"
He opened his eyes. They were hazy, drifting shut.
"The baby," he whispered. "Would we have... would we have been good parents?"
The question was a knife to the heart.
I paused, my hand on his shoulder.
"Yes," I lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. "We would have been amazing."
"I wanted... a girl," he mumbled. "Like you. Smart. Mean."
I let out a choked laugh. "Mean?"
" fierce," he corrected, his words slurring. "A fierce girl. Who builds things."
He drifted off. His breathing deepened into the heavy snore of the intoxicated.
I stood there, watching him sleep.
I wanted a girl too.
I walked back to the window. I looked out at the city.
The confession hung in the air. I loved you so much it felt like I was being flayed alive.
I had said it. I had given him the weapon.
But looking at him now, curled up on the sofa, vulnerable and broken...
He wasn't going to use it against me.
He was going to use it to heal himself.
I turned off the lamp.
I got into the big, empty bed.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since I returned, I didn't feel like a soldier.
I felt like a wife.
And that terrified me more than Ida ever could.
The Next Morning
Sunlight hit me square in the face.
I groaned, rolling over.
The room was bright. The rain had cleared.
I sat up.
The sofa was empty. The duvet was folded neatly at the foot.
Tristan was gone.
I frowned. Had he left? Had he regretted the confession?
Then, the bathroom door opened.
Tristan walked out.
He had showered. His hair was wet. He was wearing the hotel robe. He looked significantly more human than he had at 2:00 AM, though his eyes were still weary.
"Coffee," he said, holding up a cup. "Room service. And I checked it for peanuts."
I smiled, despite myself. "You’re alive."
"Barely. My head feels like a construction site."
He walked over to the bed and handed me the coffee.
"Thank you for... last night," he said, looking at the floor. "For letting me in. For not kicking me while I was down."
"You were pathetic," I said, taking the coffee. "It wouldn't have been a fair fight."
He chuckled. "Fair enough."
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.
"I remember what you said," he said quietly.
I stiffened. "You were drunk."
"I wasn't blackout drunk. I remember. You said you worshipped me."
I gripped the coffee cup. "I was emotional."
"You said you came back to save me."
He looked at me. His gaze was clear, sober, and intense.
"I’m going to make you a promise, Minerva," he said.
"Tristan, don't make promises you can't keep."
"I can keep this one." He reached out and took my free hand. "I’m going to earn that worship back. Not the blind kind. The real kind. The kind that sees the flaws and stays anyway."
"You have a lot of work to do."
"I know. But I have a good architect."
He squeezed my hand.
"Get dressed," he said. "We have a house to finish. And I have a sister to trap."
He stood up and walked to his pile of clothes.
I watched him.
The hangover hadn't slowed him down. If anything, the confession had cleared the air. He wasn't guessing anymore. He knew I loved him. Or had loved him.
And that gave him hope.
I took a sip of the coffee.
Hope was dangerous. Hope was flammable.
But as I watched him pull on his shirt, covering the broad expanse of his back, I realized I was feeling it too.
A tiny, treacherous spark of hope.
That maybe, just maybe, we could build something out of the ashes that wouldn't burn down.