Chapter 4 Cornered By The Elite Vipers

Chapter 4 Emotional
The silence inside the limousine was heavier than the rain hammering against the roof. It was a suffocating, dense weight that pressed against my eardrums, filled only by the hum of the engine and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I sat rigidly in the corner of the leather seat, staring out at the blurred city lights streaking past like comets. My hands were clamped together in my lap, knuckles white, holding onto each other as if they were the only things keeping me from flying apart.

"You’re doing it again," Lonnie said softly from the darkness beside me.

"Doing what?" My voice was a scrape of sandpaper.

"Disappearing. You’re receding into that little fortress in your head where you store all the bad things."

I didn't look at him. I couldn't. If I looked at him, I would see the pity in his eyes, and pity was the one thing that would break me tonight. Anger I could handle. But kindness?

"I told him," I whispered. The confession felt like vomiting up a stone. "I told him there was no one else."

Lonnie shifted. I heard the rustle of his tuxedo. "You told him the truth. That’s not a crime, Mina."

"It was a mistake." I turned to him then, my neck stiff. "I gave him something. I gave him a piece of the puzzle. I wasn't supposed to give him anything, Lonnie. I was supposed to be a statue. Cold. Impenetrable."

"You’re human," Lonnie countered gently. He reached out and took my cold, trembling hands in his warm ones. "And he provoked you. He cornered you in a library. That’s classic Tristan behavior—dominating the space until you have no choice but to react."

"I hate him," I said. But the words lacked the venom I wanted them to have. They sounded tired.

"I know you do," Lonnie soothed, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. "And tomorrow, you’re going to make him pay for every second of tonight. But right now? You need to decompress before you shatter."

We arrived at the hotel. The doorman opened the limousine door, offering an umbrella against the deluge. I stepped out, the cool dampness of the night hitting my flushed skin. I walked through the lobby like a ghost in red silk, ignoring the glances of the late-night staff.

Up in the suite, the mask finally fell off.

I kicked off my heels, leaving them where they landed on the plush carpet. I walked straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower, cranking the handle until the steam started to fog the mirror.

I stripped off the red dress. It pooled at my feet like a puddle of blood. I stared at my reflection. My lipstick was still perfect, a sharp crimson slash, but my eyes were wild.

“Did you love him? Was he better than me?”

Tristan’s voice echoed in the tiled room, bouncing off the marble. The arrogance of it. The insecurity. Even after five years, even after he threw me away, his biggest fear wasn't that he had hurt mei, it was that another man had touched what he considered his property.

I stepped into the scalding water. It burned, turning my skin pink, but I didn't turn it down. I needed to feel something other than the ghost of his breath on my face. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the scent of his cologne, the memory of the library, the way his eyes had looked.

Don't fall for it, I told myself, pressing my forehead against the wet tile. He looked devastated when he divorced you, too. And he still signed the papers.

Five Years Ago

The memory hit me without permission, riding the steam of the shower.

It was a Sunday morning. The sunlight was pouring into the breakfast nook of the Johnston Estate, smelling of roasted coffee and fresh hydrangeas. I was twenty-three, naive, and so in love it felt like a physical ache in my chest.

Tristan was reading the paper, his hand absentmindedly resting on my thigh under the table. His thumb was tracing slow, lazy circles on my skin.

"Ida is coming for dinner tonight," he said, not looking up.

I stiffened. The circles on my thigh stopped.

"Oh," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "I thought we were going to have a date night. You promised."

Tristan sighed, folding the paper. He looked at me with those warm whiskey eyes, the ones that could melt any argument I had. "I know, sweetheart. But she’s having a hard time. Her boyfriend broke up with her again. She needs family right now."

"She always needs family, Tristan," I said softly. "Last week it was her car. The week before that, she was lonely. She’s in our house five days a week."

His expression tightened. The warmth evaporated, replaced by a defensive edge. "She has no one else, Minerva. Our father is dead. Our mother is... distant. I am all she has. Why is it so hard for you to be supportive?"

"I am supportive," I pleaded, reaching for his hand. "I just... I want to be your wife. I feel like I’m sharing you."

He pulled his hand away. "She's my sister. You’re just being jealous. It’s unbecoming."

He stood up and walked away, leaving his coffee untouched. I sat there in the beautiful, sunlit room, feeling cold.

Ten minutes later, Ida walked in. She didn't knock. She never knocked. She saw me sitting alone and smiled.

"Trouble in paradise?" she cooed, grabbing an apple from the bowl. "He’s so sensitive about family. You really should learn to pick your battles, Mina. You’ll never win against blood."

I gasped, shutting off the water.

I stood in the silence of the hotel bathroom, dripping wet, shivering despite the heat.

"Blood," I whispered to the empty room.

That was his fatal flaw. Tristan didn't just love his family; he worshipped the concept of it. He was blind to the rot because he was terrified of being alone. Ida knew that. She had weaponized his loyalty, turning it into a cage for me.

I wrapped myself in a thick robe and walked out into the living area. Lonnie was there, sitting on the sofa in his pajamas, reading a book. He looked up as I entered.

"Better?" he asked.

"Cleaner," I corrected.

I sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, curling my legs under me. "We have the kickoff meeting at Veridian’s temporary office tomorrow at nine. Tristan will be there."

"He will," Lonnie agreed. "And he’s going to be a mess. You rattled him, Mina. I saw him after you left the library. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck."

"Good."

"Is it?" Lonnie closed his book. "Because a rattled Tristan is an unpredictable Tristan. If he starts digging... really digging... he’s going to find out about me."

I looked at Lonnie. My "fiancé." My business partner. And the man who had been happily living with his boyfriend, Marcus, for six years.

"He won't find out," I said firmly. "We’ve scrubbed your socials. As far as the world knows, you’re a ghost, just like me. And besides, Tristan’s homophobia is internalized and subtle—he assumes every man is a threat to his masculinity. He won't look for a boyfriend; he’ll look for a rival."

Lonnie smirked. "Fair point. God, straights are exhausting."

I managed a weak smile. "Get some sleep, Lonnie.."

"Goodnight, Mina."

I went to my room, but I didn't sleep. I lay in the massive king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city breathe outside. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the phantom pressure of Tristan’s body caging me against the library door. I felt the heat of his anger.

And beneath the anger, I felt the pull. The magnetic pull toward the man who had destroyed me.

I hate him, I repeated in my head. I hate him. I hate him.

But the problem with hate was that it felt suspiciously like passion.

The next morning, the sun was painfully bright. It glared off the wet pavement, turning the city into a blinding landscape of glass and steel.

I chose a suit this time. Charcoal gray, tailored so sharply it could cut skin. A white silk blouse, buttoned to the throat. Stilettos that clicked like a metronome. My hair was sleek, my makeup flawless.

I arrived at the office building we had leased for the duration of the project. It was a modern high-rise, all chrome and emptiness. My team was already there, setting up the conference room.

"Dr. Hayes," my assistant, Sarah, greeted me nervously. "Mr. Johnston is already here. He’s in the conference room."

"Alone?"

"No. His... sister is with him."

My step faltered for a fraction of a second before I corrected it. Of course. Ida wouldn't let him out of her sight after last night. She needed to do damage control.

"Excellent," I said, though bile rose in my throat. "Bring coffee. Black. And make sure the projector is working."

I walked to the glass doors of the conference room. I paused, taking one final breath, locking away the crying girl from the shower, locking away the wife who missed her husband.

I pushed the doors open.

Tristan was standing by the window, looking out at the skyline. He was wearing a navy suit, but he looked like he hadn't slept. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his posture was rigid.

Ida was sitting at the table, scrolling through her phone. She looked fresh, rested, and deceptively sweet in a lemon-yellow dress.

"Good morning," I said. My voice was crisp.

Tristan turned. His eyes latched onto me instantly. There was a hunger in them that unsettled me.

"Minerva," he said. His voice was hoarse.

"Dr. Hayes," I corrected, walking to the head of the table. I didn't look at him. I opened my portfolio, spreading the blueprints out on the sleek surface. "We have a lot to get through today. The structural integrity of the Opera House’s north wing is compromised. We need to discuss reinforcement options."

"I don't care about the north wing," Tristan said. He walked toward the table, ignoring the chair, standing over me. "We need to finish the conversation we started last night."

Ida’s head snapped up. "What conversation?"

I ignored her. I finally looked up at Tristan. "Mr. Johnston, I charge four hundred dollars an hour. Unless you want to pay me to discuss your personal neuroses, I suggest you sit down and look at these schematics."

"Neuroses?" Tristan let out a dark, humorless laugh. He placed his hands on the table, leaning in. "Is that what we’re calling the truth now? I called the bank, Minerva."

Ida froze. The color drained from her cheeks so fast it was almost comical.

"Tristan?" she squeaked. "What bank?"

Tristan didn't look at his sister. He kept his eyes pinned on me. "I know about the signatures. I know you didn't take the money."

The room went dead silent. The hum of the air conditioner seemed to roar.

Ida stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Tristan, don't be ridiculous. Of course she took it. The accountants said—"

"I don't care what the accountants said!" Tristan roared, slamming his hand on the table.

I didn't flinch. I watched him.

He turned his head slowly to look at Ida. It was the first time I had seen him look at her with anything other than adoration. There was suspicion there now. A hairline fracture in his blind faith.

"The signatures didn't match, Ida," he said quietly. "And the money was moved to an offshore account that you set up for the shell company three years prior. I saw the records."

Ida’s mouth opened and closed. Panic flared in her eyes. She looked at me, and hatred radiated from her.

"She’s manipulating you," Ida hissed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "Can't you see? She comes back, looking like... this, and suddenly the records are wrong? She forged them! She’s trying to frame me to get back at you!"

"How would I forge bank records from five years ago, Ida?" I asked calmly. "I was living in a hostel in Paris washing dishes."

Tristan looked back at me. Pain flickered across his face at the mention of the hostel.

"Is that true?" he asked softly. "You were washing dishes?"

"I did what I had to do," I said. "Because I had zero dollars in my account. Because I left with nothing."

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

"I don't want your apology, Tristan," I said, closing the file with a snap. "I want to build this theater. Are we going to work, or am I going to walk out of here and sue you for breach of contract?"

He stared at me for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to grab me, shake me, kiss me. He looked like a man waking up from a coma to find his house on fire.

Slowly, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Sit down, Ida," he commanded, his voice cold.

"But Tristan—"

"Sit. Down."

Ida sat. She looked small, venomous, and terrified.

"Proceed, Dr. Hayes," Tristan said, his eyes never leaving my face. "Tell me how we fix the foundation."

I met his gaze. The air between us crackled with electricity. This wasn't just a meeting. He was letting me in, but only because he wanted to figure out how to keep me.

"First," I said, tapping the blueprint. "We have to tear out the rot."

I wasn't talking about the building.

And looking at Tristan’s grim, determined face, I knew he understood exactly what I meant.