Chapter 138: The Downfall

Tristan's face contorted in frustration, his eyes imploring for me to see things his way. "I'm trying to protect you, Rose. Jacob is a liar. He manipulated my sister, and he'll do the same to you. I won't let him destroy you like he did her; that's the reason why you should marry me."

"You’re wrong," I said firmly, meeting his gaze. "Jacob isn’t who you think he is. I’ve been honest with you from the start—he’s my husband, and nothing you do will change that. What you’re doing now is only hurting me, not helping."

For a moment, Tristan just stood there, his expression wavering between anger and sorrow. I could see the battle within him—the war between his love for me and his need for vengeance. But I couldn’t let him drag me into it; I couldn’t let him twist the truth to suit his own agenda.

"You don’t have to do this," I said softly, taking a step closer. "Please, Tristan, stop. Let this go before you make things worse."

Tristan growled bitterly. "I will make sure Jacob will pay for what he has done."

His mother’s voice broke the tension, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. "You can go now, Tristan, both of you!" Her tone was firm, but the undercurrent of pain and pleading was unmistakable. "I don’t want to see you anymore!"

Tristan flinched at her words, his eyes dropping to the floor. He had been so focused on his hatred for Jacob and his desperation for me that he hadn’t realized how much his actions had also cost him the one family he had left, his mother.”

Without thinking, I stepped forward, my voice soft but steady. "You can’t drive him away, Madam," I said, surprising even myself. "He’s your son, and he needs you."

Tristan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. He hadn’t expected me to defend him—not after everything he had said and done. His surprise was palpable, but so was the deep, unspoken gratitude in his gaze.

Tristan's mother looked at me, her stern expression wavering. For a moment, she seemed torn between her grief and the maternal instinct she had buried beneath her anger. "He made his choices, and those choices tore this family apart," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "He let Laura die."

"But that doesn’t mean he should lose you too," I insisted gently. "He needs you now more than ever, especially if what you said about Laura’s death is true. You can’t push him away. Not when there’s still time to heal. Don’t let anger take away your son, too."

There was a long, tense silence as his mother looked between the two of us. Tristan stood frozen, still reeling from my unexpected defense. His eyes flickered with a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before—the cold, determined mask slipping for just a moment.

"I don’t know if I can," his mother whispered, her voice barely audible. "The pain... it’s too much."

"You don’t have to forgive him right now," I said softly, "but don’t cut him out of your life. You still have each other."

For the first time since we entered the room, Tristan’s mother looked at him—not with disdain but with something like hesitation, as if she were considering the possibility of reconciliation. Tristan stepped forward, his voice trembling. "Mother, I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t know how to make it right."

She didn’t respond right away, but she didn’t tell him to leave either. A small, fragile hope stirred in the air between them, and for the first time, Tristan seemed unsure of his path forward.

“You still have each other, and together you can heal a broken heart,” I said gently, trying to bridge the rift between Tristan and his mother. “Forgiving each other’s mistakes is the best way to ease the pain. Life’s too short to waste on differences that don’t really matter.”

Tristan and his mother stood silent, the tension in the room palpable. But I could sense that something had shifted. There was a flicker of understanding between them, a crack in the wall of their shared grief.

“Think of Laura’s death as the reason to stay close, not to drift apart,” I added softly, hoping to guide their fractured relationship toward reconciliation.

Tristan’s mother, her voice firm, broke the silence. “Clean your room,” she said, her tone authoritative yet calm. “I never had the heart to go through it, to disturb the way you left things. I didn’t want to change what you designed.”

She then turned to me, her expression softening. “Call me Corazon.” She extended a thin, delicate hand.

I took it warmly, surprised by her gentleness. “I’m Rose,” I replied, offering her a smile in return.

“You’re more than welcome here, Rose,” she said kindly, before turning her gaze back to Tristan, who stood there, clearly stunned by the shift in his mother’s demeanor. “But don’t let her sleep in your room,” she added with a teasing glint in her eyes. “You have to marry her first.”

And with that, she turned, walking toward a door that likely led to the kitchen. “I’ll make dinner for the two of you,” she said over her shoulder before disappearing, leaving Tristan frozen in place, his face lit up by a quiet, almost boyish joy.

Tristan stood still, as if lost in a dream, his expression softened by something heartwarming. Slowly, he made his way to the window and gazed out. The golden sun was sinking toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the room. It was a cool afternoon, and with it came a sense of peace, pulling us away from the bitterness that had once filled the air. A quiet, unexpected joy swelled within me—victory in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

“I think you should stay with your mother for a while, Tristan,” I suggested gently, watching him as he remained lost in thought. “There are things you both need to talk about—things more important than me right now.”

He turned slightly, meeting my eyes, but said nothing. I took a deep breath and continued. “Just tell me where I can find my mother. You’ve found yours, and now I need to find mine too.”

“I’ll take you there personally,” Tristan said, his voice steady as he moved toward the kitchen. “Just give me a moment with my mother.”

He disappeared from sight, leaving me alone in the living room. A flicker of worry crept into my mind, but deep down, I knew I was doing the right thing. Helping others find peace in the midst of their pain—it brought a sense of fulfillment I hadn’t expected.

In that quiet moment, I realized that helping people heal was as rewarding as finding my own path forward.

In that moment, I finally understood why Tristan had seemed so lost and why every decision he made felt aimless, even reckless. He had been pushing for the impossible, lashing out, and projecting his anger onto others in a desperate attempt to quiet the storm of his own suffering.

After a few moments, Tristan reappeared through the kitchen door, urgency etched on his face. He moved toward me quickly. “We can’t waste any more time,” he said, his voice firm but laced with concern. “Let’s go get your mother before Lily Brinson can use her to hurt you emotionally.”

His words revealed just how deeply he had penetrated Lily Brinson’s plans. He wasn’t just reacting anymore—he understood the stakes, and that realization sent a ripple of fear through me.

“Let’s bring down the Queen to win,” Tristan declared, his voice hard and determined, making it clear that his target was Lily Brinson’s downfall.