Chapter 6 Deal
I stared up the winding driveway. The Johnston Estate loomed at the top of the hill, a sprawling gothic monstrosity of gray stone and dark windows. It looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum where happiness went to suffocate.
"I can't go up there, miss," the driver said, eyeing the construction vehicles blocking the path. "You’ll have to walk."
"Fine."
I shoved a wad of cash through the partition and stepped out. The air here was different than in the city.
The sound of jackhammers echoed off the valley walls that felt like a migraine made manifest.
I walked up the driveway. My heels sank slightly into the gravel. Every step was a fight against my own instincts. My body wanted to turn around and run. My chest was tight, my lungs refusing to expand fully. This was the place where I had been a bride. This was the place where I had tried to build a family. This was the place where I had been discarded.
I reached the front entrance. The massive oak doors, usually polished to a mirror shine, were propped open with industrial fans. Dust poured out of the house like smoke.
"Hey! Hard hat area!" a foreman shouted, stepping in front of me. He was covered in white drywall dust, looking like a ghost.
"I’m the architect. Try to stop me, and see what happens." I said, not slowing down.
He blinked, stepping aside. "Uh, right. Mr. Johnston is upstairs. Master suite."
I climbed the grand staircase. The carpet runner had been ripped up, revealing the raw wood underneath. The banister was covered in plastic sheeting. The house was being gutted, stripped of its skin, leaving only the bones.
Good, I thought viciously. Tear it all down.
I reached the landing and turned left toward the master wing. The noise of the construction faded slightly here, replaced by an eerie, heavy silence. The door to the master bedroom was open.
I stopped at the threshold.
The room was unrecognizable. The silk wallpaper I had picked out five years ago was peeling off in strips. The furniture was gone. The bed, the massive four-poster where I had spent nights waiting for Tristan to come home, where I had cried myself to sleep, where I had believed we were making a baby... gone.
Tristan stood in the center of the room.
He had abandoned his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows, stained with gray dust. His hair was messy, as if he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.
He was staring at a hole in the wall.
Specifically, a hole in the plaster right next to where my vanity table used to sit.
"Tristan," I said.
He turned slowly. His face was pale, his eyes dark and unreadable. In his hands, he held a wooden box. It was mahogany, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
I recognized it instantly.
The air left my lungs.
It was my jewelry box. The one my grandmother had given me. I had left it behind when Ida rushed me out of the house. I had assumed she threw it in the trash along with my clothes.
"You said you left with nothing," Tristan said. His voice was devoid of emotion, flat and dead.
"I did," I whispered, stepping into the room. The floorboards creaked under my feet. "I left that behind. Ida told me I wasn't allowed to take anything that 'belonged to the house.' I thought she burned it."
"The crew found it behind the drywall," Tristan said. He looked back at the hole. "Someone cut a section out, placed this inside, and plastered over it. It was sealed in, Minerva."
He walked toward me. The box looked heavy in his hands.
"Why would someone hide your jewelry box in the wall?"
"I don't know."
"Open it."
He held it out to me.
I hesitated. My grandmother’s box. I remembered the velvet lining. I remembered the smell of lavender sachets I used to keep inside.
I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly, and lifted the lid.
It wasn't jewelry inside.
It was paper.
Stacks of polaroids. Bundles of letters tied with blue ribbon. And a small, velvet pouch.
I frowned, reaching for a photo. "What is this?"
I pulled one out.
It was a picture of me. I was sleeping. I was wearing a silk nightgown in this bed, in this room. But the angle... the photo was taken from above. From the perspective of someone standing over me.
I flipped it over.
On the back, in sprawling, masculine handwriting: My sleeping beauty. Soon, you’ll be free of him.
My stomach lurched. I felt bile rise in my throat.
"I didn't take this," I whispered, dropping the photo as if it were toxic. "Tristan, I didn't... who took this?"
"Read the letters," Tristan commanded. He wasn't yelling. He was terrifyingly calm.
I picked up a letter. The envelope was addressed to Mina. No return address.
I opened it. The handwriting matched the photo.
My Darling Mina,
I know he’s suffocating you. I know you only married him for the security, just like we planned. But be patient. Once the divorce is finalized and you get the settlement, we can finally be together in Rio. I miss your skin. I miss the way you scream my name.
Love, K.
I stared at the paper. The words swam before my eyes.
"This is insane," I said, my voice shaking. "This is... this is fiction. 'K'? Who is K?"
"You tell me," Tristan said. He reached into the box and pulled out the velvet pouch. He upended it into his palm.
A ring tumbled out. A man’s ring. Gold, heavy, with an onyx stone.
"I found this ring in your nightstand five years ago," Tristan said softly. "Ida told me you said it belonged to your father. But your father was a poor mechanic, Minerva. He didn't wear gold."
"I never had this ring!" I shouted, slapping the letter away. It fluttered to the floor. "I have never seen this in my life! Someone planted this!"
"Behind a wall?" Tristan’s voice cracked. The calm facade shattered, revealing the agony underneath. "Who builds a wall to hide a lie, Minerva? Who goes to that length?"
"Ida!" I screamed. "Ida does! Don't you see? She hid this here so that if you ever renovated, if you ever started to miss me, you would find this and hate me all over again! It’s insurance!"
"It’s been five years!" Tristan roared back. He threw the box onto the floor. The wood splintered. Photos scattered across the dusty room like confetti. "Why would she plant evidence for a crime you had already been convicted of?"
"Because she knows you!" I stepped toward him, jabbing a finger at his chest. "She knows you’re weak! She knows that deep down, you loved me, and she was terrified that one day you might wake up and realize you made a mistake. This box isn't proof of my guilt, Tristan. It’s proof of her fear."
Tristan ran his hands over his face, pacing away from me. He looked like an animal caught in a trap, gnawing on its own leg to escape.
"The letters are dated," he muttered. He picked one up from the floor. "August 12th, 2020. 'Last night was incredible. He suspects nothing.'"
He looked at me, his eyes wet. "August 12th. That was the night of the gala. I left early because I had a migraine. You stayed behind. You came home at 3:00 AM. You said you were with the committee."
"I was!"
"Ida said she saw a car drop you off. A black sedan. Not the limo."
"Ida is a liar!"
"Prove it!" Tristan yelled. "Give me one thing, Minerva! One piece of evidence that isn't just your word against hers! Because right now, I have photos, I have letters, I have bank statements, and I have a hole in my wall filled with your secrets!"
I looked at the scattered letters. My mind was racing, adrenaline pumping through my veins like ice water. August 12th. August 12th, 2020.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself back into the nightmare of that year. Where was I? What was I doing?
Then, it hit me.
I opened my eyes. I walked over to where Tristan was standing. I knelt down, ruining my tailored trousers in the dust and picked up a specific letter.
"Read the date on this one," I said, holding it up.
Tristan took it, his hand shaking. "September 4th, 2020."
"Read the content."
Tristan read aloud, his voice trembling. "I can't wait to see you this weekend. I’ve booked the cabin. We’ll have three days of uninterrupted bliss while he’s away on business."
I stood up. I brushed the dust off my knees. I looked him dead in the eye.
"September 4th, 2020," I said clearly. "Do you remember that day, Tristan?"
He frowned, searching his memory. "I... I was in Tokyo. Ideally."
"You were supposed to be," I corrected. "But you didn't go. Because on September 3rd, you got food poisoning from that seafood restaurant on 5th. You were violently ill. You were bedridden for three days."
Tristan’s eyes widened.
"I didn't go to a cabin," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "I sat by your bed. I held a bucket for you while you threw up. I wiped your forehead with cold cloths. I didn't sleep for forty-eight hours because your fever spiked and I was terrified."
I stepped closer to him.
"Ida came over on the 5th," I said. "She brought you soup. She saw me there. She told me I looked like a wreck and offered to take a shift, but I refused to leave you."
Tristan went still. He stared at the letter in his hand.
"If I was at a cabin with 'K'," I whispered, "then who was holding your hand while you shivered, Tristan? Who cleaned you up? Who loved you enough to stay in that room smelling of sickness for three days?"
He looked up at me. The realization hit him like a physical blow. The color drained from his face completely.
"You," he breathed. "It was you."
"It was me," I confirmed. "So tell me, Tristan. How did I write a letter about a cabin trip when I was right beside you?"
He dropped the letter. It fluttered down to join the others.
"It’s fake," he whispered. "It’s all fake."
"The photos are staged," I said, gesturing to the floor. "Probably taken when I was napping. The letters are forged. The ring is a prop. It’s a theater production, Tristan. And Ida is the director."
Tristan stumbled back. He hit the wall and slid down it until he was crouching, his head in his hands.
"She’s my sister," he choked out. "She raised me after Mom died. She... why would she do this?"
I looked down at him. Part of me wanted to comfort him. Part of me wanted to kneel down and stroke his hair.
But the bigger part of me, the part that had starved in Paris, the part that had been humiliated stood tall.
"I told you why," I said cold as ice. "She wants you. And she knew I was the one thing standing in her way."
I kicked the jewelry box. It skidded across the floor, hitting his boot.
"There’s your rot, Tristan," I said. "It’s not in the foundation. It’s in your family tree."
I turned to leave. I had done what I came to do. I had planted the seed of doubt, watered it with the truth, and watched it bloom into horror.
"Wait."
Tristan scrambled up. He moved faster than I expected. He grabbed my wrist before I could reach the door.
I spun around, ready to fight.
But he wasn't attacking. He was clinging.
His eyes were red-rimmed, wild, and desperate. "Don't go."
"Let me go, Tristan."
"No. Please." He swallowed hard. "You’re right. I don't know what’s real anymore. I look at this room, I look at her, and I feel like I’m losing my mind. But you..." He looked at me with a terrifying clarity. "You are the only thing that makes sense. The anger in your eyes... it’s real. The hate... it’s real. You’re the only one not lying to me."
"I’m not your therapist," I said, trying to pull away.
"I don't need a therapist. I need an architect."
I paused. "What?"
"Fix the house," he said. His grip on my wrist tightened. "Move back in."
I laughed. "You must be joking. I would sooner sleep in a dumpster."
"I’m serious," he insisted. "You said there’s rot. You said Ida hid things. If she hid this box, she hid other things. Cameras. Microphones. Who knows?"
He gestured around the room.
"I can't live here alone knowing she might be watching," he said. "And I can't trust anyone else to find it. You know this house. You know her. You found the flaw in the letter in ten seconds."
"So you want to hire me as a... what? A paranormal investigator?"
"I want to hire you to renovate the estate," he said. "Full access. You tear down whatever walls you want. You rip up the floors. You expose everything. If you find more boxes, more lies... you bring them to me."
"And in exchange?" I asked, my eyes narrowing.
"In exchange," Tristan said, his voice dropping low, "I give you total control. Over the budget. Over the design. Over the staff. You can ban Ida from the property. You can strip this house down to the studs and rebuild it however you want."
He stepped closer.
"Destroy the memory of us, Minerva," he whispered. "Erase me from this house. Make it yours. Just... help me find the truth."
I stared at him.
It was a trap. I knew it was a trap. Moving back in? Living in the blast radius of our failed marriage?
But it was also an opportunity.
If I was inside the house, I could find the real evidence. The financial records Ida hadn't shredded, the journals she thought were safe. I could dismantle her life from the inside out. I could torment Tristan with my presence, make him watch me thrive while he bled guilt.
And I could ban Ida from the property. The thought alone was delicious.
"I have conditions," I said.
"Name them."
"One," I said, holding up a finger. "I don't sleep in the master bedroom. I take the guest wing. You don't enter my quarters without an invitation. Ever."
"Done."
"Two. Ida is not allowed past the gate. If she shows up, I have the authority to call security and have her removed."
Tristan hesitated for a fraction of a second but then he nodded. "Done."
"Three," I said softly. "You stop asking me about my life. You stop asking about my fiancé. You treat me as a contractor. Nothing more."
He looked at me with tragic, hungry eyes. I knew he couldn't keep that promise. I knew he would break it within a week.
"I’ll try," he said.
"Try harder."
I pulled my wrist free from his grip. I looked at the hole in the wall, then at the scattered lies on the floor.
"Clean this up," I said, gesturing to the mess. "I start on Monday. And Tristan?"
"Yes?"
"Don't think this means I forgive you," I said, turning to walk away. "I’m not doing this to save you. I’m doing this to bury you."
I walked out of the room.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was insane. I had just agreed to move in with my ex-husband, the man who still looked at me like I was the air he needed to breathe.