Chapter 43 Business Trip
It was Wednesday morning. The day after the elevator. The day after I had pushed Tristan away and barricaded myself in my room.
I hadn't seen him since. He had slept in the guest room or maybe he hadn't slept at all. I heard his car leave before dawn.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at my packed suitcase. I had repacked it three times. Not because I was leaving for good, but because I needed order. I needed to control something, anything, in a world that was spinning off its axis.
My phone buzzed.
Silas: Ms. Hayes. Urgent. Can you come down to the kitchen?
I sighed. "What now?"
I grabbed my coffee and went downstairs.
The kitchen was empty of construction workers, but full of tension. Tristan was there. He was leaning against the island, reading a document on his tablet. He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his jaw was tight.
When I walked in, he didn't look up.
"Morning," he said. His voice was flat.
"Morning," I replied, matching his tone.
Silas was standing by the stove, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Ms. Hayes," Silas said. "We have a problem with the marble for the foyer."
"What problem?"
"The supplier in Italy canceled the order. Something about a quarry strike. Or maybe they just got a better offer."
"Damn it," I muttered. "We need that marble. It’s the centerpiece of the restoration."
"I know," Silas said. "I tried to find another supplier, but everyone is backordered for months. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you go to the source," Tristan said, finally looking up.
His eyes were cold. Empty. The heat from the elevator was gone, replaced by a wall of ice.
"The source?" I asked.
"The quarry is in Carrara," Tristan said. "But the distribution hub is in Paris. They have a reserve stock for VIP clients. But they won't release it over the phone. They need a face-to-face negotiation."
"Paris," I repeated.
"I’m flying out tonight," Tristan said. "I have a meeting with the board of Veridian Europe tomorrow. I can stop by the distributor."
"You don't know anything about marble," I said. "You’ll pick the wrong vein. You’ll get ripped off."
"Then come with me," he said.
It wasn't an invitation. It was a challenge.
"Come with you to Paris?" I asked. "Tonight?"
"It’s a business trip," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "We fly out tonight. We meet the distributor tomorrow morning. We fly back tomorrow night. Twenty-four hours. Strictly professional."
I looked at him.
That was the line I had drawn. That was the boundary I had set.
If I said no, I was admitting that I didn't trust myself. I was admitting that the barricade wasn't strong enough.
If I said yes... I was walking back into the fire.
But the house needed the marble. The house needed to be perfect.
"Fine," I said. "I’ll pack a bag."
"Good," Tristan said. He looked back down at his tablet. "Be ready at 6:00 PM. The jet is waiting."
Tristan’s private jet was a palace in the sky. Cream leather seats, mahogany tables, a fully stocked bar. It was designed for comfort.
But there was no comfort here.
Tristan sat on one side of the aisle, working on his laptop. I sat on the other, reviewing blueprints. We didn't speak. We didn't eat. The only sound was the hum of the engines and the clicking of his keyboard.
He was punishing me. Or maybe he was just respecting my wishes.
It felt terrible.
We landed at Le Bourget at 8:00 AM local time. A car was waiting.
"Hotel first," Tristan told the driver. "We need to freshen up before the meeting."
"Which hotel?" I asked.
"The Ritz," he said. "It’s the only one with availability on short notice. Fashion Week is starting."
My stomach tightened. "Availability?"
"Don't worry," he said, not looking at me. "I booked two rooms."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Okay."
We drove through Paris. The city was gray and rainy, but beautiful. I watched the Eiffel Tower pass in the distance, a steel needle stitching the clouds together.
We arrived at the Ritz.
The lobby was chaos.
We fought our way to the reception desk.
"Bonjour," Tristan said to the clerk. "Reservations for Johnston."
The clerk typed on his computer. He frowned.
"Monsieur Johnston," he said. "I see the reservation. But... there is a problem."
"What problem?" Tristan asked.
"We have had a... plumbing incident," the clerk said delicately. "On the third floor. Several suites are flooded."
"And?"
"And one of your rooms was affected. We have had to cancel it."
I froze.
"Cancel it?" I asked. "Do you have another one?"
"Madame, it is Fashion Week. Every hotel in the city is booked. We are over capacity as it is."
He looked at Tristan apologetically.
"We still have the Imperial Suite," the clerk said. "It was unaffected. But it is only one suite."
Tristan looked at me.
I looked at him.
It was a cliché. It was a bad romance novel plot point. There was only one bed.
"Find us another hotel," Tristan said to the clerk. "Any hotel."
"I can try, Monsieur. But..." The clerk shrugged. "It is unlikely."
Tristan turned to me.
"We can try the George V," he said. "Or the Crillon. But it will take hours to get across the city in this traffic. And we have a meeting at 10:00."
I looked at my watch. It was 9:15.
We didn't have time.
"Take the suite," I said.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
"It’s a suite, Tristan. It has a couch. It has a floor. We’re adults. We can handle it."
"If you say so."
He turned back to the clerk. "We’ll take the Imperial."