Chapter 60 New Enemy?
I found Tristan in the kitchen. He was actually arguing with Marco, our chef, about the correct way to slice tomatoes for a salad. He looked domestic. He looked happy.
"Tristan," I said, my voice flat.
He turned. He saw my face. Then he saw the blue-backed papers. The domesticity vanished instantly, replaced by the cold, hard mask of the Titan.
He dropped the knife on the island.
"What is it?" he asked, crossing the room in two long strides.
I handed him the stack.
He read the front page. His jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might actually crack under the pressure. The vein in his temple began to throb.
"That son of a bitch," he snarled, his voice a low vibration of pure rage.
"It’s Lorelei," I said, though we both knew better.
"Lorelei doesn't sneeze without her father’s permission. This is the Senator. He’s trying to drain us financially and bury us in bad press until we’re too toxic to function." He threw the papers onto the marble island. "I’ll handle it. I’ll call Vane. We’ll counter-sue for harassment, libel, and anything else my legal team can dream up. I’ll ruin him."
"Tristan, stop."
I walked over to him. I put my hand on his chest, feeling the frantic, angry thud of his heart.
"Don't go to war over this," I said gently.
"Mina, she’s suing you! For millions! I won't let them drag your name through the mud again. I won't let them make you the villain in their story."
"They already have," I pointed out, my voice weary. "And a counter-suit will just give the tabloids more fuel. It’s what they want. They want a public spectacle. They want us angry. They want us fighting in a courtroom where they control the narrative."
"So what do we do? Roll over and let them kick us?"
"No," I said. "We ignore them."
Tristan frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Ignore a multimillion-dollar lawsuit?"
"We let the lawyers handle the paperwork in the background," I clarified. "But we don't engage. We don't give statements. We don't retaliate. We just... build. We focus on the house. We focus on us."
I looked up at him, pleading with my eyes for him to hear me.
"You said you wanted to earn your way back," I said. "This is how. By staying grounded. By not letting them dictate our lives or our emotions. That’s how we win."
He looked at me for a long moment, the predatory urge to "crush the enemy" warring with his desire to be the man I needed.
"It goes against every instinct I have," he admitted, his voice rough.
"I know."
"My instinct is to burn their world down for touching yours."
"I know." I trailed my hand up his chest to his shoulder, squeezing gently. "But right now, my instinct is to take my daily walk. Item number three on your schedule. Are you coming?"
He closed his eyes. He let out a long, jagged breath, releasing the tension in his shoulders.
"Okay," he said, opening his eyes. They were softer now. "Okay. We ignore them. We walk."
He grabbed his coat from the hook.
We walked out into the cold afternoon, the sun low and orange on the horizon. We didn't talk about the lawsuit. We didn't talk about the Senator or the fire. We talked about the house. We talked about where the gardens would bloom in the spring. We talked about the future.
And for the first time, the groveling didn't feel like a performance he was putting on to stay in my good graces.
It felt like a promise.
Later That Night
I was in my office, working late. The house was quiet, the construction crew long gone, and Tristan was supposedly asleep in the guest wing. The only sound was the scratching of my pen and the wind rattling the windowpane.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
I glanced at the screen. Unknown number.
I ignored it. Probably a reporter who had caught wind of the Vance lawsuit.
It buzzed again.
And again. A persistent, rhythmic vibration that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I picked it up, intending to block the number once and for all.
Before I could, a text message came through.
Unknown: You think you won.
I froze. The breath left my lungs in a silent rush.
I stared at the screen, my heart starting to pound against my ribs. The rhythm was fast, loud in the silent room.
Unknown: But you just took the bait.
My fingers trembled as I typed back. Who is this?
The response was immediate. It was as if they were waiting for me to acknowledge them.
Unknown: Look out the window.
I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like lead.
My office had large French doors that led out to the terrace. Beyond the terrace was the vast, dark lawn, and beyond that, the thick line of ancient trees that bordered the estate.
I walked to the glass, my reflection ghost-like against the dark pane.
The night was pitch black. No moon, just a heavy blanket of clouds.
I peered into the darkness, my eyes straining. I saw nothing at first. Just shadows and the swaying silhouettes of trees.
Then, a flicker.
A small, orange light.
Like the cherry of a cigarette. Or a lighter.
It was deep in the trees, just at the edge of the property line, near the spot where the old carriage house used to stand.
I squinted, pressing my face against the cold glass until my breath fogged the surface.
The light flared, brighter this time, illuminating a face for a split second.
It wasn't Ida. Ida was in a high-security cell, awaiting her hearing.
It was a man. A man in a dark hoodie, his features shadowed but his presence undeniable.
He was standing perfectly still, watching the house. Watching my window.
The light went out, plunging the woods back into total darkness.
My phone buzzed in my hand, the vibration making me jump.
Unknown: Beautiful house. It would be a shame if it burned down again.
I backed away from the window, stumbling against my desk. The terror that had been simmering for weeks boiled over into a cold, paralyzing dread.
The stalker hadn't stopped when Ida was arrested.
Ida hadn't been the mastermind. She hadn't been working alone.
I ran to the door, my legs finally finding their strength.
"Tristan!" I screamed into the empty, echoing hall. "Tristan!"