Chapter 55 Shattering
The drive back from St. Jude’s was silent.
Not the heavy, angry silence of the elevator or the desperate silence of the apartment. This was the silence of a man who had just realized his entire life was built on a foundation of lies.
Tristan drove. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His eyes were fixed on the road, unblinking, unseeing.
He had just confronted Ida. He had just heard her admit it. I paid him to save you. She wasn't right for you.
He had heard her dismiss our child as "collateral damage."
We pulled into the driveway of my apartment building. Tristan parked. He turned off the engine.
But he didn't move.
"Tristan?" I whispered.
He took a shaky breath.
"I need a minute," he said. His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
"Okay. Take your time."
He leaned his head back against the seat. He closed his eyes.
"Five years," he whispered. "Five years of hating you. Five years of thinking you betrayed me. Five years of... of missing a child I thought wasn't mine."
A tear slipped from beneath his lashes. Then another.
"I let her," he choked out. "I let her convince me. I didn't even fight. I just... I saw him in the room, and I believed the worst of you. Because it was easier. It was easier to believe you were a monster than to believe my sister was."
He turned to me. His face was ravaged.
"I killed us, Mina. Not Ida. Me. I held the knife."
"You were manipulated," I said, reaching for his hand. "You were grieving your mother. You were vulnerable."
"That’s an excuse!" he shouted, pulling his hand away. He hit the steering wheel. "I’m a grown man! I run a billion-dollar company! I should have known! I should have asked! I should have... I should have trusted you!"
He opened the car door. He stumbled out.
"Tristan!"
I scrambled out after him.
He was standing on the sidewalk, bent over, hands on his knees. He was hyperventilating.
"I can't breathe," he gasped. "I can't... the air... it’s too thick."
"Look at me," I said, grabbing his shoulders. "Tristan, look at me. Breathe."
He looked at me. His eyes were wide, panicked.
"I threw you out," he whispered. "It was raining. You were pregnant. And I threw you out."
He retched.
He stumbled to the curb and vomited.
It was violent. It was visceral. He heaved until there was nothing left, his body rejecting the guilt, the horror, the truth.
I rubbed his back. I murmured soft, meaningless words.
"It’s okay. Let it out."
He sank to the ground, sitting on the dirty curb. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at me, his eyes hollow.
"It’s not okay," he said. "It will never be okay."
"We can fix it," I said. "We have the proof. We have each other."
"Do we?" he asked. "How can you look at me? How can you touch me? I’m the reason our baby is dead."
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Final.
I flinched.
I had thought it. A thousand times. If he hadn't thrown me out. If I hadn't been stressed. If I hadn't slept in a bus station.
But hearing him say it...
"It wasn't your fault," I lied. Or maybe I wasn't lying. Maybe it was Ida’s fault. Maybe it was fate.
"Stop protecting me," he said. "Stop being the architect. Stop trying to build a bridge over the wreckage. Look at the wreckage, Mina! Look at what I did!"
He stood up. He swayed.
"I need to be alone," he said.
"Tristan, no. You’re in no state—"
"I need to be alone!" he screamed. "I need to... I need to think. I need to figure out how to live with myself."
He turned and started walking. Not toward the car. Just... away. Down the street.
"Where are you going?" I called out.
"I don't know," he said without looking back. "Just away."
I watched him go.
I wanted to run after him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to tell him that I forgave him, that we could start over.
But I knew he wouldn't hear me.
He was in the shattering.
And some things... some things have to break completely before they can be put back together.
Two Days Later
I didn't hear from him.
I called. I texted. I called Vane. I called Silas.
Vane: He’s at the estate. He’s not answering the door. But he’s alive. I saw him in the window.
Silas: The crew is working. But the boss... he’s in the west wing. Just sitting there. In the dark.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I drove to the estate.
The gate was open. The crew was working on the exterior, but the house felt silent. Mournful.
I walked inside.
"Tristan?"
Silence.
I checked the kitchen. Empty. The living room. Empty.
I went to the west wing.
The door to the old solarium was closed.
I opened it.
Tristan was sitting on the floor.
He was surrounded by boxes. Old boxes. Dust-covered boxes.
He was holding something in his hands.
A small, yellow blanket.
My heart stopped.
It was the blanket I had bought. The one I had hidden in the back of the closet, hoping to surprise him. The one I had left behind when I was thrown out.
He looked up.
He looked terrible. He hadn't shaved. He hadn't showered. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn to St. Jude’s.
"I found it," he whispered. "In the attic. Ida... she kept it. Like a trophy."
He clutched the blanket to his chest. He rocked back and forth.
"I’m sorry," he sobbed into the yellow wool. "I’m so sorry, little one. I’m so sorry."
I walked over to him. I sat down on the floor beside him.
I didn't say anything. I just put my arms around him.
He leaned into me. He buried his face in my neck. And he wept.
He wept for the baby we lost. He wept for the wife he betrayed. He wept for the sister he had loved and the monster she turned out to be.
He wept until there were no tears left.
And when he finally stopped... when the silence returned...
He looked at me.
"I want to burn it," he said.
"The blanket?"
"No," he said. "The shrine. In the basement. The one Vane told me about. I want to see it. And then I want to burn it."
"Tristan..."
"I need to see it, Mina. I need to see the depth of her madness. I need to know exactly what I’m up against."
He stood up. He offered me his hand.
"Will you come with me?"
I looked at his hand. It was steady now.
"Yes," I said. "I’ll come."