Chapter 7 Annoying
The Guest Wing of the Johnston Estate smelled of lavender and disuse.
It was a smell that sat heavy in the back of my throat, some scent meant to mask the mustiness of rooms that hadn't seen a living soul in years.
I stood in the center of the suite, my suitcase standing upright like a sentry beside me. This wasn't just a room; it was a demotion. Five years ago, I had slept in the Master Suite, wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets, waking up to the sound of Tristan’s heartbeat. Now, I was relegated to the west side of the house, the section reserved for visiting cousins and drunk business associates who couldn't drive home.
"Just a job," I whispered to the empty room. "It’s just a job."
I walked to the window. The view here was different. Instead of the sprawling manicured gardens and the fountain, this window overlooked the dense, tangled woods that bordered the property. It was darker here. Quiet.
I didn't unpack my clothes first. I unpacked my equipment.
I set up my drafting table near the window, angling it to catch the afternoon light. I laid out my laptop, my sketchpads, my laser measuring tools. I claimed the space not with perfume or trinkets, but with the cold, hard tools of my trade. I was turning this bedroom into a bunker.
A knock on the door made me jump.
I checked my watch. I had been here less than an hour.
"Come in," I said, steeling my spine.
The door opened. It wasn't Tristan.
It was a woman in a tweed suit that cost more than my first car. She had hair sprayed into a helmet of iron-gray curls and a face that looked like it had been pinched by God and never quite relaxed.
Agatha Johnston. Tristan’s aunt. The matriarch of misery.
She stood in the doorway, clutching a alligator-skin purse, her eyes scanning the room as if checking for rats. When her gaze landed on me, her lip curled.
"So," she said. Her voice was a rasp, like dry leaves skittering over pavement. "The rumors are true. The prodigal stray has returned."
"Hello, Agatha," I said calmly. I didn't smile. I didn't offer her a seat. I turned back to my drafting table and uncapped a pen. "To what do I owe the pleasure? I’m on the clock."
"Don't you use that tone with me, young lady." She stepped into the room, her heels clicking aggressively on the hardwood. "I don't know what kind of spell you’ve cast on my nephew, but let me be clear: you are not welcome here."
I marked a measurement on the paper. "Tristan owns the house, Agatha. You just occupy the pool house. I believe his welcome is the only one that counts."
Agatha gasped. It was a wet, offended sound. "I am his family! I raised him when his mother was too busy jet-setting to care! I protected him from vultures like you five years ago, and I will do it again."
I finally turned to face her. I leaned my hip against the desk, crossing my arms.
"Protected him?" I asked. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, you and Ida presided over the destruction of his happiness. You isolated him. You fed his paranoia."
"We saved him!" she screeched, her face flushing a blotchy red. "You were a nobody, Minerva! A girl from the wrong side of the tracks with a pretty face and an empty bank account. You married him for his money. Everyone knew it. We just helped him see the truth."
"And now?" I asked. "He’s richer than ever. And he’s miserable. Good job, Agatha. You really maximized the portfolio."
She stepped closer, waving a finger in my face. "He is not miserable! He is engaged to Lorelei Vance! A Senator’s daughter! A woman of breeding! A woman who knows her place!"
Lorelei.
I knew who she was. I had seen her in the tabloids standing next to Tristan at galas. Blonde. statuesque. The kind of woman who rode horses competitively and never had dirt under her fingernails.
"Engaged?" I kept my voice neutral, though my stomach roiled. "I didn't see a ring on his finger."
"It’s an understanding!" Agatha snapped. "They are perfect for each other. And you... you are just a temporary distraction. A contractor. You’re here to fix the crown molding, Minerva. Do not think for a second that you are here to fix the marriage."
I laughed.
It bubbled up out of me, dark and genuine.
"Fix the marriage?" I shook my head, looking at her with genuine pity. "Agatha, the marriage is a corpse. I’m not here to resurrect it. I’m here to bury it properly. And as for Lorelei... if she’s so perfect, why is Tristan hiring his ex-wife to renovate his bedroom instead of asking her?"
Agatha’s eyes bulged. "He hired you because he pities you! Because he thinks you’re destitute!"
"He hired me because I’m the best," I corrected sharply. "And he’s paying me a fortune. Which, coincidentally, is coming out of the estate funds. So, really, Agatha, you should be bringing me coffee. I’m the one increasing your property value."
"You insolent little—"
She raised her hand. It was a reflex, a remnant of a time when she could bully the poor girl from the provinces.
But she froze.
Her eyes flicked to something behind me.
I didn't turn around. I knew who was there. The air in the room had changed. It had become heavier.
"Hello, Aunt Agatha," Tristan’s voice came from the doorway. It was low, deceptively calm. "I didn't realize you were part of the welcoming committee."
Agatha lowered her hand slowly, smoothing her tweed jacket. She plastered a smile on her face that looked like a rictus of pain.
"Tristan! Darling!" She turned to him. "I was just... checking on the accommodations. Making sure everything was suitable for your... employee."
"Employee," Tristan repeated. He walked into the room.
He had showered since the incident with the jewelry box. His hair was damp, dark against his forehead. He wore fresh clothes. Black jeans and a black t-shirt that hugged his chest. He looked less like a billionaire CEO and more like a bouncer at a club you couldn't get into.
He stopped beside me. He didn't look at Agatha. He looked at me. His eyes scanned my face, searching for damage.
"Did she say something to you?" he asked me.
"Nothing I haven't heard before," I said, turning back to my blueprints. "Apparently, I’m a vulture. And a stain. And I should be fetching coffee for the Senator’s daughter."
Tristan’s jaw tightened. He turned his gaze to his aunt. It was a look that could strip paint.
"Agatha," he said softly. "Do you remember the conversation we had about boundaries?"
"Tristan, please," Agatha scoffed, trying to regain her footing. "I’m just looking out for you. Lorelei is coming for dinner tonight. How is it going to look if she is wandering around the house?" She pointed a manicured nail at me.
"Minerva lives here," Tristan said.
"She is a guest!"
"She is the lead architect," Tristan corrected. "And as such, she has run of the house. If Lorelei has a problem with that, she can eat at a restaurant."
Agatha gasped again. "You would choose this... this woman over your fiancée?"
"She’s not my fiancée, Agatha," Tristan snapped. "Stop telling people that. And get out."
"Tristan!"
"Get. Out." He took a step toward her. "And if you ever enter her room without knocking again, I will cut your allowance by fifty percent. Try me."
Agatha went pale. The threat to her wallet was the only language she spoke fluently. She glared at me one last time and turned on her heel, storming out of the room.
The silence she left behind was loud.
I didn't look at Tristan. I picked up my ruler and drew a line. It was crooked. My hand was shaking.
"I’m sorry," Tristan said.
"Don't be," I said, erasing the line. "I’ve dealt with worse."
"She won't bother you again."
"Yes, she will. But next time, I’ll lock the door."
Tristan didn't leave. I could feel him standing there, hovering in my peripheral vision. He was too big for the room. His presence sucked up all the oxygen.
"You unpacked," he observed.
"I set up," I corrected. "I haven't unpacked my clothes."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't plan on getting comfortable, Tristan. This is a temporary assignment."
He walked over to the drafting table. He looked down at the sketch I was working on. It was a rough layout of the library. I had drawn a massive X over the fireplace.
"You’re removing the fireplace?" he asked.
"It’s inefficient," I lied. "And it blocks the flow of light."
"We used to sit by that fireplace," he murmured. "On the rug. You used to read to me while I worked."
I slammed the pencil down.
"Rule number three," I reminded him, my voice sharp. "No reminiscing. We are contractor and client. Do you talk to your plumber about the time you cuddled on the rug?"
He looked at me. His eyes were dark pools of regret.
"I don't love my plumber," he said.
The words hung in the air, naked and terrifying.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that his love was a weapon that had almost killed me.
"You don't love me either," I said, my voice shaking. "You love the memory of me. You love the ghost. The woman standing in front of you? The one who is going to tear your house apart? You don't know her."
"Then teach me," he whispered. He reached out, his hand hovering over mine on the desk. "Show me who you are."
I pulled my hand away.
"Get out, Tristan."
"Minerva..."
"Get out!" I pointed to the door. "This is my room. My sanctuary. Rule number one: Invitation only. And you are not invited."
He stared at me for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to argue, to fight, to cross the line and grab me. I saw the impulse twitch in his jaw.
But he nodded.
"Invitation only," he repeated. "Fine."
He walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.
"Dinner is at seven," he said without looking back. "Lorelei is coming. You should join us."
"Why?" I asked, incredulous. "To be insulted over the salad course?"
He turned to look at me, and a small, dark smile curved his lips. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of the wolf I had seen at the gala.
"No," he said. "Because I want to see you eat her alive."
He closed the door.
I sat in the silence of the room, listening to the thudding of my own heart.
He was insane. He wanted me to come to dinner with his understanding fiancée? He wanted to watch us fight?
I stood up and walked to my suitcase. I unzipped it.
I pushed aside the sensible work clothes. I dug to the bottom, where I had packed a few things just in case.
I pulled out a dress.
It was black. Simple. But the back was cut so low it was practically illegal, and the fabric was a fluid silk that clung like water.
Two hours later, I walked down the grand staircase.
I heard voices drifting from the dining room. Agatha’s shrill laugh. A deeper, unfamiliar male voice. And a woman’s voice that dripping with entitlement. Lorelei.
I paused in the foyer, checking my reflection in the antique mirror. When I'm satisfied I walked toward the dining room.
The doors were open. The table was set with the good china, the Wedgwood pattern I had picked out for our first anniversary. The irony tasted like copper in my mouth.
Tristan sat at the head of the table. Agatha was on his left.
On his right sat Lorelei Vance.
She was stunning, I had to give her that. Blonde hair falling in perfect waves, skin that had never seen a day of hard labor, wearing a white dress that looked suspiciously bridal.
She was leaning toward Tristan, her hand resting on his forearm, laughing at something he hadn't said.
Tristan looked bored. He was staring at his wine glass, spinning the stem between his fingers.
Then, he looked up.
He saw me standing in the doorway.
His hand stopped spinning the glass. His eyes widened, then darkened, the pupils blowing wide until the gold was swallowed by black. He dragged his gaze down my body, lingering on the silk clinging to my hips, then back up to my eyes.
The hunger on his face was so raw it was almost obscene.
Lorelei noticed his distraction. She turned her head.
When she saw me, her smile didn't falter, but her eyes turned to ice.
"Oh," she said. "You must be the help."
I smiled. It was the smile of a predator spotting a limp gazelle.
I walked into the room. I didn't walk to an empty seat. I walked straight to Tristan.
"I’m the architect," I said, my voice smooth and projecting clearly. "Minerva Hayes. But you can call me Mina. Everyone does."
I stopped behind Tristan’s chair. I placed my hand on the back of it, claiming the space. I felt Tristan tense, his body humming with awareness of my proximity.
"And you must be Lorelei," I said, looking down at her. "I’ve heard so much about you. Mostly from Agatha, of course. She says you’re very... obedient."
Lorelei’s smile vanished. "Excuse me?"
"Agatha," I nodded to the older woman, who looked like she was choking on a breadstick. "She was just telling me how perfectly you fit into the family. Like a puzzle piece. Or a pet."
Tristan choked on a laugh. He covered it with a cough, reaching for his wine.
"Tristan," Lorelei snapped, looking at him. "Are you going to let your staff speak to me like that?"
Tristan set his glass down. He looked at Lorelei, then he looked up at me. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back so he could see my face upside down.
"She’s not staff, Lorelei," he said lazily. "She’s my ex-wife."
Lorelei froze. She looked from him to me, connecting the dots. The scandal. The rumors.
"The... the cheater?" she whispered.
The room went cold.
I felt Tristan’s body go rigid. His hands clenched into fists on the table.
But before he could speak, before he could defend me or ruin everything, I laughed.
"Oh, honey," I said, leaning down so my face was level with hers. "I didn't cheat. I upgraded."
I pulled out the empty chair directly opposite Tristan. I sat down, crossing my legs, and snapped my napkin open.
"Pass the wine, would you?" I asked the table at large. "I find dinners in this house require a lot of alcohol to swallow."