Chapter 99 Relief
The leather of Dr. Evans’s sofa was worn soft, the deep brown material warm beneath my hands. Outside the large window, a steady, gray November rain washed over the city, streaking the glass and blurring the sharp edges of the Manhattan skyline.
It was our fourth session.
Therapy had become a grueling, necessary routine. We spent the first three weeks clearing away the surface debris. Dr. Evans had carefully guided us through grounding techniques and coping mechanisms.
But today, the atmosphere in the room felt different. The air was heavy, charged with a thick, anticipatory tension. We had run out of surface debris.
It was time to look at the foundation.
"Tristan," Dr. Evans said quietly, setting his notepad on his knee. "I want to talk about the day Ida came to your office. The day she brought you the Manila envelope."
I felt Tristan stiffen beside me. His left hand, which had been resting lightly over mine, clenched into a tight fist. He didn't look at the doctor. He stared at the center of the low wooden coffee table.
"We've established that the evidence was fabricated," Dr. Evans continued, his voice calm and completely devoid of judgment. "But I want to explore your immediate reaction to it. Can you walk me through that moment?"
Tristan’s jaw locked. A muscle ticked violently just beneath his ear.
"It was a Tuesday," Tristan said. His voice was a harsh, low scrape. "Late afternoon. I was reviewing the quarterly projections. Ida walked in and locked the door behind her. She looked... devastated. She played the part perfectly."
He stopped, swallowing hard. The memory was a physical weight on him.
"She put the envelope on my desk," Tristan forced the words out. "She said she had hired a private investigator because she was worried about Minerva’s erratic hours. She said she was trying to protect me."
"And you opened it," Dr. Evans prompted gently.
"I opened it," Tristan confirmed, his eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second. "There were bank statements. Hotel receipts. And the photographs. Blurry, grainy shots of Mina and Julian Thorne walking into a hotel lobby. Sitting at a bar. Him touching her arm."
The name of my former boss, the man Ida had paid to participate in the framing, sent a cold spike of nausea through my stomach. I hated hearing it in this room.
"What was your first thought when you saw the photographs?" Dr. Evans asked. "What was the very first emotion you felt?"
I waited for him to say anger. I waited for him to say betrayal.
Tristan opened his eyes. He looked at the doctor, the mask of the Titan completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.
"Relief," Tristan whispered.
The word hung in the quiet office.
I turned my head, staring at his sharp profile in shock. "Relief?" I repeated, my voice breaking. "Tristan, how could you possibly feel relief?"
He didn't look at me. He couldn't.
"Because the waiting was finally over," Tristan said, his voice thick with a profound, crushing self-loathing. "Because for three years of marriage, I woke up every single morning terrified that today was the day you were going to realize I was a fraud."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.
"You don't understand," he groaned, his voice muffled by his fingers. "Ida didn't just forge documents, Mina. She weaponized my own mind against me. She knew exactly what I was most afraid of."
"Which was what?" Dr. Evans asked, leaning forward slightly.
Tristan dropped his hands, sitting back up. He looked exhausted, hollowed out.
"That I am my father," Tristan stated bluntly. "My father destroyed everything good in his life. He was a tyrant. He was emotionally bankrupt. He treated my mother like a possession until she faded into nothing. I grew up watching him burn our family to the ground, and I swore I would never be like him."
He turned his head slowly, finally meeting my gaze. His amber eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"And then I met you," he said softly. "You were so bright, Mina. You were so full of life and passion and independence. You didn't care about the money. You didn't care about the name. You just looked at me and smiled."
He reached out, his trembling fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw.
"I loved you so much it felt like I was bleeding," he whispered. "But the more I loved you, the more terrified I became. I would look in the mirror, and I would see my father's face. I would feel his ruthless ambition in my chest. I convinced myself that I was toxic. I convinced myself that I was slowly suffocating you in the dark, just like he suffocated my mother."
The absolute tragedy of his confession slammed into my chest. I couldn't breathe around the ache in my throat.
"So," Dr. Evans interjected quietly, guiding the breakthrough to its conclusion. "When Ida handed you the envelope..."
"It made sense," Tristan finished, dropping his hand from my face. He stared at his own lap. "It made perfect sense. Of course she was cheating on me. Of course she was looking for a way out. I was a monster, and she had finally figured it out. The photographs weren't a betrayal, Dr. Evans. They were a confirmation."
"You didn't investigate the evidence," Dr. Evans noted.
"No," Tristan admitted bitterly. "I didn't want to investigate it. If I dug too deep, I might find out it was fake. And if it was fake, that meant the waiting wasn't over. That meant I still had to wake up every day terrified of losing her."
He let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh that sounded like tearing metal.
"It was easier to believe she was a traitor than to believe she could actually love me," Tristan said. "It was easier to throw her out and burn the house down myself than to wait for her to leave me."
Silence descended on the room. The only sound was the steady drumming of the rain against the glass.
I felt a hot, angry tear slide down my cheek.
For five years, I had hated him for his arrogance. I had hated him for discarding me like a broken toy because his pride couldn't handle a scandal.
But there was no arrogance here. There was only a deeply damaged man who hated himself so much he had proactively destroyed his own life just to spare himself the suspense.
"Tristan," I said.
My voice was steady. It didn't shake. I didn't feel small anymore. I felt an overwhelming, fierce need to tear down the twisted architecture of his self-hatred.
He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Look at me," I commanded.
"I am not a saint," I told him, looking directly into his tear-filled amber eyes. "I am not a creature made of light, and I am not too good for you. I am stubborn. I hold grudges. I am entirely too obsessed with my work. I am a flawed, messy human being."