Chapter 39 Breaking Point 2
"Ms. Hayes," she nodded. "Mr. Johnston is expecting you. Penthouse level."
I took the private elevator up.
The doors opened onto the executive floor. It was quiet. Most of the staff had gone home for the day.
Tristan was waiting in his office.
He had changed. He was wearing a navy suit now, crisp and clean. But his eyes were still stormy.
Silas was there too, looking uncomfortable.
"Ms. Hayes," Silas said, standing up as I entered. "I... uh... about earlier..."
"Forget it, Silas," I said, walking to the conference table. "Mr. Johnston had a moment. It happens. Are the crew coming back?"
"I called them," Silas said. "Offered them double time for the rest of the week. They’re in."
"Good. We start again tomorrow at 0700."
"Yes, ma'am." Silas looked at Tristan, then back at me. "I’ll... leave you two alone."
He practically ran out of the room.
I was alone with Tristan.
He was standing by the window, looking out at the city. The view was breathtaking—a sea of lights stretching to the horizon.
"You hired them back," I said.
"I did."
"Double time?"
"Small price to pay for my sanity."
He turned to face me.
"You look..." He stopped. He swallowed hard. "You look incredible."
"I look like a woman who just had to talk her ex-husband off a ledge," I said, dropping my bag on the table.
"Are you still quitting?"
"No," I said. "But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"One," I said, holding up a finger. "No more firing people without my consent. I am the lead architect. Personnel decisions go through me."
"Agreed."
"Two. No more public displays of ownership. You don't grab me. You don't kiss me in front of the crew. You treat me like a professional."
He hesitated. His jaw tightened.
"Agreed," he ground out. "In public."
"Three," I said. "We need to talk about Ida. Not just about the trial. About us. About what she did to your head."
"I’m fine."
"You’re not fine, Tristan. You just tried to bludgeon a scaffold with a crowbar because a kid whistled. You need help. Professional help."
"I don't need a shrink. I need you."
"I am not a rehabilitation center," I said. "I am a person. And I can't fix you."
He walked over to the table. He placed his hands on the surface, leaning toward me.
"I’m not asking you to fix me," he said. "I’m asking you to stand by me while I fix myself."
"That sounds like therapy," I pointed out.
He sighed. "Fine. Therapy. Are you happy?"
"Ecstatic."
I sat down in one of the leather chairs. I spun it around so I was facing him.
"Now," I said. "About the west wing."
"Forget the west wing," he said.
"Tristan—"
"The elevator," he said.
I frowned. "What about it?"
"It’s broken," he said. "The service elevator. The one you came up in."
"It seemed fine."
"It’s not. I got an alert on my phone right before you walked in. Maintenance is shutting down the main bank for repairs. We have to take the executive lift down."
"Okay. So?"
"So," he said, walking around the desk. "It’s finicky. It gets stuck."
"Tristan, if this is a ploy to get me trapped in a small box with you..."
"It’s not a ploy," he said, holding up his hands. "I swear. But we should probably go before they cut the power to the whole grid for the maintenance cycle."
I looked at him suspiciously.
"Fine," I said. "Let’s go."
We walked to the executive lift. The doors slid open.
It was a small, wood-paneled box. Intimate.
We stepped inside. The doors closed.
We started to descend.
The silence was thick. I could smell his cologne. I could feel the heat radiating off him.
He was standing close. Too close.
"You’re violating condition number two," I whispered.
"We’re not in public," he whispered back.
He reached out. He touched my hand.
The elevator jolted.
Then, it stopped.
The lights flickered and died. The emergency red light bathed the small space in a crimson glow.
The hum of the ventilation system cut out.
Silence.
"You have got to be kidding me," I said.
Tristan didn't look surprised. In fact, he looked... pleased.
"I told you it was finicky," he said.
"You did this," I accused. " You pressed the stop button."
"I didn't touch anything," he said, holding up his hands in the red light. "It’s fate, Mina."
"It’s sabotage," I said. "Just like the generator."
"Maybe," he admitted. "Or maybe the universe just wants us to finish the conversation we started in the library."
"We finished it," I said. "I left."
"You came back."
He took a step toward me.
The space was tiny. There was nowhere to go. My back hit the paneling.
"Tristan," I warned. "We are trapped in an elevator. The air is going to get thin."
"It’s already thin," he murmured.
He was right. The air was getting hot. Stifling. The smell of him was overwhelming.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice breathless.
"Because I need you to understand," he said. "I need you to understand that I’m not just possessive. I’m addicted."
He placed his hands on the wall on either side of my head, boxing me in.
"I spent five years trying to quit you," he whispered. "I tried everything. Work. Alcohol. Lorelei. Nothing worked. And then you walked back into my house, looking like a queen, and I relapsed. Hard."
He leaned in. His lips were inches from mine.
"I’m an addict, Mina. And you’re the needle."
I stared at him. The red light made him look demonic. Beautiful.
"This is toxic," I whispered.
"I know."
"We’re going to burn."
"Let it burn."
He kissed me.
And in the stifling heat of the broken elevator, suspended forty floors above the city, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't want to be cured.
I wrapped my arms around his neck. I pulled him closer.
And I let the fire take me.