Chapter 62 Him
"You don't want me on my knees," he said, turning to look at me. "And you don't want me beside you. You just want me to be the client."
"Tristan..."
"It’s fine, Minerva," he said, stepping back, putting distance between us. "You’re the architect. You set the boundaries."
He walked to the kitchen door.
He stopped, his hand on the frame.
"But don't expect me to stop wanting you," he said without looking back. "I’ll give you your space. I’ll play the role. But I am not giving up."
He walked out.
I stood alone in the kitchen.
I had drawn the line. I had held my ground. I had protected myself.
So why did it feel like I had just lost everything all over again?
One Week Later
Tristan and I existed in the same space, but we didn't interact. We communicated through Silas, through emails, through post-it notes left on blueprints.
He was the perfect client. He approved the budget changes for the west wing without a word. He signed off on the new security system without questioning the cost.
He was cold. He was efficient. He was terrifying.
I hated it.
I missed the anger. I missed the jealousy. I missed the man who had yelled at me in the library, the man who had kissed me in the elevator.
This new Tristan—the polite, distant billionaire—was a stranger.
It was Thursday evening. The crew had left. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the new generators.
I was in my temporary office, packing up my bag to head to my apartment in the city. I was spending more and more time there, avoiding the heavy atmosphere of the estate.
I walked out to my car. It was parked near the service entrance.
The air was crisp, the sky a deep, bruised purple.
I unlocked my car. I threw my bag into the passenger seat.
As I walked around to the driver's side, I noticed something.
The front left tire.
It was flat. Completely deflated.
I frowned. I crouched down to look at it.
There was a gash in the rubber. A clean, sharp slice, about three inches long.
It wasn't a pothole blowout. It wasn't a nail.
It had been slashed.
With a knife.
A cold prickle of fear ran down my spine.
I stood up quickly, looking around the parking area. It was empty. The shadows from the trees seemed to stretch toward me, long and grasping.
The text message from last week flashed in my mind. The man in the hoodie standing in the tree line.
Ida was in jail. But her ghost was still walking the grounds.
I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it.
I didn't call the police. I didn't call Silas.
I called Tristan.
He answered on the second ring.
"Minerva?" His voice was sharp, professional. "Is there a problem with the site?"
"Tristan," I said, my voice trembling. "Someone slashed my tire."
"Where are you?" he demanded, the Titan roaring back to life.
"By the service entrance. My car..."
"Stay exactly where you are," he ordered. "Lock the doors. I’m coming."
The line went dead.
I didn't get into the car. I didn't want to be trapped in a small space. I backed up against the side of the vehicle, holding my heavy flashlight like a club, scanning the tree line.
Two minutes later, Tristan sprinted around the corner of the house.
He didn't look like the cold client anymore. He looked like a predator who had just smelled blood.
He ran to me. He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes scanning my face, my body, checking for injuries.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his chest heaving.
"No. I’m fine. I just... I came out, and it was like this."
He looked down at the tire. He saw the clean slice in the rubber.
His jaw clenched.
He pulled me into his arms. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't care about the boundaries. He just held me tight against his chest, shielding me with his body.
"It’s him," I whispered into his coat. "The man from the text message. The stalker."
"I know," Tristan said grimly, his hand stroking my hair. "And he just made a fatal mistake."
He pulled back, looking down at me.
"You’re not going to your apartment," he stated. It wasn't a request.
"Tristan, my things..."
"I’ll have Marco pack them up. You are staying here. In the house. Where I can see you."
I looked at him. The protective, overwhelming Tristan was back. The man who tried to control the world to keep me safe.
A week ago, I would have fought him. I would have called him a jailer.
But right now, standing in the dark with a slashed tire and a stalker in the woods...
I didn't want to fight.
I wanted the shelter.
"Okay," I whispered. "I’ll stay."