Chapter 8 Old Wounds
I sat opposite Tristan, my back straight, my hands resting lightly on the table. Underneath the heavy linen tablecloth, my knees were trembling, but above the surface, I was made of black silk and ice.
"Upgraded?" Lorelei repeated. Her voice had lost its cultured smoothness; it sounded thin, reedy. She looked at Tristan, expecting him to laugh, to throw me out, to do something.
But Tristan didn't move. He was leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on me with a terrifying intensity. He looked like a man watching a car crash in slow motion, horrified, yet unable to look away.
"Yes," I said, reaching for the wine bottle that no one had passed to me. I poured myself a glass of the vintage Cabernet, the liquid glugging softly into the crystal. "Upgraded. It’s a term we use in architecture when we replace a faulty foundation with one that doesn't crumble under pressure."
I took a sip. It was rich, oaky, and tasted like the nights I used to spend in this very room, trying to make conversation with a husband who was already drifting away.
"You are unbelievable," Agatha hissed. She had recovered from her choking fit and was now glaring at me with the fury of a woman whose carefully constructed social hierarchy was being dismantled. "Tristan, are you going to let this... this woman insult you at your own table?"
Tristan finally blinked. He picked up his own glass, swirling the red liquid.
"She didn't insult me, Agatha," he said, his voice low and devoid of warmth. "She insulted the foundation. And considering the state of this house, she’s not wrong."
He looked at Lorelei. "Eat your soup, Lorelei. It’s getting cold."
Lorelei’s mouth opened and closed. She looked at the bowl of lobster bisque in front of her as if it contained poison. She was the Senator’s daughter. She was used to being the center of attention. Having her fiancé or understanding, as Agatha called it, side with his disgraced ex-wife was a glitch in her reality she couldn't process.
"I’m not hungry," Lorelei said, pushing the bowl away. She turned her blue eyes on me, sharpening them into weapons. "So, Minerva. Or do you prefer Ms. Hayes? I hear you’re living in the guest wing. How... quaint. It must be difficult for you, coming back to the scene of the crime."
"Interesting choice of words. Usually, people refer to it as a 'home.' But you’re right. A crime did happen here." I said, swirling my wine.
"Adultery is a sin, not a crime," Agatha muttered into her napkin.
"I was referring to the decor," I said dryly, gesturing to the heavy, velvet drapes that blocked out the moonlight. "And the gaslighting. Both were suffocating."
Lorelei laughed. It was a brittle, tinkling sound. "You’re very funny. I can see why Tristan kept you around for a few years. Men do love a jester. But tell me, how is the job market for disgraced socialites? Is that why you turned to manual labor? Drawing lines on paper?"
"Architecture is a blend of art and engineering, Lorelei," I said. "I build skyscrapers. I design opera houses. I create legacies." I tilted my head, studying her perfectly coiffed hair. "What do you do? besides riding horses and waiting for your father’s trust fund to deposit?"
Tristan made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort. He covered it with his hand, but his shoulders shook.
Lorelei flushed a deep, blotchy crimson. "I sit on the board of three charities! I organize the Spring Gala!"
"Party planning," I summarized. "Noble work."
"I am a philanthropist!"
"You’re a tax write-off," I corrected gently.
Agatha slammed her hand on the table. The silverware jumped. "Enough! I will not have this dinner turned into a brawl! Lorelei is a guest of honor!"
"And I’m the architect saving this family from living in a rotting pile of stones," I shot back, my voice suddenly hard. "So unless you want me to start listing the structural deficiencies of the east wing—which, by the way, is sinking—I suggest we eat in silence."
For a moment, nobody moved.
Tristan picked up his spoon. "The bisque is excellent," he said calmly.
We ate.
The only sounds were the scrape of silver against the plate and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Every tick felt like a countdown.
I could feel Tristan’s gaze on me constantly. He wasn't looking at Lorelei. He wasn't looking at his food. He was watching my hands. He was watching the way I swallowed. He was watching the pulse beating in my throat.
"So," Lorelei said, breaking the silence after the main course, the rack of lamb was served. She clearly had regrouped and found a new angle of attack. "Tell us about this... upgrade. This fiancé."
I froze mid-cut. I carefully set my knife down.
"Lonnie," I said. "His name is Lonnie."
"Lonnie," she tested the name, wrinkling her nose. "Sounds like a farmhand."
"He’s a structural engineer," I lied. Lonnie was actually a brilliant interior designer, but 'engineer' sounded sturdier. "He’s brilliant. Kind. And secure enough in his masculinity that he doesn't need a chorus of women telling him he’s wonderful to function."
I shot a glance at Tristan. His jaw tightened.
"And where is he?" Lorelei asked. "Why isn't he here protecting you? If I were engaged to a woman living with her ex-husband, I wouldn't leave her side. Unless, of course, he doesn't care."
"He trusts me," I said. "Trust. It’s a concept you might struggle with, given the company you keep."
"Does he touch you?" Tristan asked.
The question cut through the room like a razor blade.
Lorelei gasped. Agatha dropped her fork.
I turned to Tristan. He wasn't eating. He was gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white. His eyes were dark, burning with a jealousy so raw it sucked the air out of the room.
"Excuse me?" I whispered.
"Does he touch you," Tristan repeated, his voice low and ragged. "Like I did?"
"Tristan!" Lorelei shrieked. "I am sitting right here!"
"Answer the question," Tristan growled, ignoring her completely. "Does he know where you like to be kissed? Does he know that you get cold at 3 AM and need another blanket? Does he know you?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. The air was electric, thick with the memory of our bodies tangled together. I hated him for asking. I hated him for remembering. And I hated that my body reacted to his possessiveness with a surge of heat instead of disgust.
"He knows enough," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "He knows the woman I am today. He doesn't look for the girl I used to be."
"That girl is still in there," Tristan whispered. "I can see her."
"She’s dead," I snapped. "You killed her."
I stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"I’ve lost my appetite," I said. "Enjoy the lamb."
I threw my napkin onto the table. It landed on my untouched plate.
I turned and walked out of the dining room. My heels clicking on the parquet floor.
"Minerva!" Lorelei shouted after me. "You can't just walk away!"
"Watch me," I muttered.
I reached the grand foyer and headed for the stairs. I needed to get back to my room. I needed to lock the door and barricade myself in before the mask crumbled.
"Mina!"
Footsteps pounded behind me. Heavy. Fast.
I reached the first landing of the staircase before he caught me.
Tristan’s hand clamped around my wrist. He spun me around, pinning me against the oak banister.
"Let go of me," I hissed, struggling against his grip.
"No."
He was breathing hard. He smelled of wine and expensive cologne and danger. His eyes were wild, searching my face.
"Why did you do that?" he demanded. "Why did you come down there?"
"You invited me," I reminded him. "You wanted to see me eat her alive. Was I not entertaining enough?"
"You destroyed her," he murmured. He didn't sound angry. He sounded awed. "I’ve never seen anyone shut Agatha up like that. You were... magnificent."
"I was cruel," I said. "There’s a difference. And don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want to devour me."
He laughed, a dark, broken sound. He stepped closer, pressing his hips against mine, pinning me to the railing. "I’ve wanted to devour you since the moment you walked into that gala in the red dress. I’m starving, Mina. I’ve been starving for five years."
"Go eat your fiancée," I spat.
"She’s not my fiancée!" he shouted. The sound echoed through the cavernous hall. "She’s a business deal Agatha arranged to keep the board happy! I don't touch her. I don't look at her. I don't want her!"
"That’s not my problem!"
"It is your problem!" He grabbed my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. His palms were rough, hot. "Because you’re the only one I see. Even when I hated you... even when I thought you betrayed me... I still looked for you in every room."
My breath hitched. I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. I could see the tiny scar on his chin where I had accidentally scratched him years ago.
"You don't get to say that," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "You don't get to rewrite history just because you’re lonely. You threw me away, Tristan. You believed the lie."
"I know," he choked out. His thumbs stroked my cheekbones, wiping away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "I know I broke it. I know I’m the villain in your story. But God help me, Mina, I can't let you go again."
He lowered his head. His lips brushed against my ear.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped. "Tell me you love this... Lonnie. Tell me he makes you scream. Tell me, and I’ll let you go."
I opened my mouth to lie. To say yes, Lonnie is the love of my life. Yes, he is better than you.
But the words wouldn't come. Because Tristan was pressing against me, hard and desperate, and my body was singing a song of betrayal.
"Tristan?"
Lorelei’s voice drifted from the dining room doorway below.
We froze.
Tristan didn't pull away immediately. He lingered for one heartbeat, his forehead resting against mine, breathing in my scent. Then, slowly, painfully, he stepped back.
He looked down at me with a look of pure agony.
"Run, Mina," he whispered. "Run back to your room. Because if you stay here another minute, I’m going to kiss you in front of them, and I won't stop."
I didn't need to be told twice.
I turned and ran up the stairs. My heels slipped on the polished wood, but I caught myself. I ran down the hallway to the guest wing.
I burst into my room and slammed the door. I turned the lock. Then I dragged the heavy armchair in front of it.
I stood in the center of the dark room, gasping for air. My body was on fire. My skin tingled where he had touched me.
I walked to the drafting table and gripped the edge, my knuckles white.
"He’s the enemy," I told myself aloud. "He is the enemy."
But as I looked out the window at the dark woods, I knew the terrifying truth.
The enemy had breached the gates. And I hadn't just let him in. I had wanted him to conquer me.
I had changed out of the dress. I was wearing oversized sweatpants and a t-shirt, trying to scrub the glamour and the tension off my skin.
I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by old blueprints of the estate I had found in the closet. I was looking for something. Anything. A hidden room. A safe.
Tristan said Ida had hidden the box behind the wall. That meant there were voids. Places where the house kept secrets.
My phone buzzed.
Lonnie.
"Hey," I answered.
"I saw the news," Lonnie said. His voice was serious.
"What news?"
"Turn on the TV. Or look at Twitter. Someone leaked photos from the dinner."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
I grabbed my laptop and opened it. I navigated to a gossip site.
There, splashed across the front page, was a blurry photo taken through the dining room window.
It showed Tristan standing over me at the table. It showed the way he was looking at me like I was a goddess he was about to sacrifice himself to. Lorelei was a blur in the background, looking furious.
Headline: THE EX-WIFE RETURNS. TRISTAN JOHNSTON CAUGHT IN HEATED MOMENT WITH DISGRACED EX MINERVA HAYES.
"Who took this?" I whispered. "The curtains were open... but the grounds are private."
"Ida," Lonnie said. "Or someone on her payroll. The narrative is already spinning, Mina. The comments are saying you’re a homewrecker. That you’re trying to claw your way back into the money."
I laughed bitterly. "Let them talk. It helps the brand."
"It’s dangerous," Lonnie warned. "Lorelei Vance isn't just a socialite. Her father is powerful. You humiliated her tonight."
"She humiliated herself."
"Mina, be careful. You’re poking bears."
"I’m not poking bears, Lonnie," I said, staring at the photo of Tristan. "I’m hunting them."
I hung up.
I looked at the photo again. I zoomed in on Tristan’s face.
The world saw anger. They saw a fight.
But I knew that look. I had seen it in the dark, whispered against my skin.
It was obsession.
I closed the laptop.
A scratching sound came from the wall.
I froze.
It was coming from behind the built-in bookcase on the far wall of my room.
Rats?
No.
Someone was on the other side of the wall.
I stood up, walking slowly toward the bookcase. I pressed my ear against the wood.
"Minerva?"
It was a whisper. A woman’s voice. Not Ida. Not Agatha.
"Who is there?" I whispered back.
"Get out," the voice hissed. It sounded old, cracked. "Get out before she kills you."
"Who?" I demanded, pressing harder against the wood. "Who are you?"
Silence.
Then, the sound of retreating footsteps, shuffling away into the bowels of the house.
I pulled at the bookcase. It was solid. No hidden latch.
I backed away, my heart pounding.
I wasn't alone in the guest wing. There was someone else here. Someone hidden.
Tristan had said Ida hid things.
I looked at the blueprints on the floor. I traced the line of the guest wing. According to the original plans from the 1920s, there was a service corridor that ran behind these rooms. A corridor that had been walled off in the 80s.
But someone was walking in it.
I grabbed a red marker. I circled the wall behind the bookcase.
"Found you," I whispered.