Chapter 103 The Proposal (Attempt 1)
The winter holidays passed, We didn't attend any galas. We didn't host any parties. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas in the penthouse, wrapped in the quiet contentment that followed the breakthrough in Dr. Evans’s office.
By late January, Tristan was almost entirely healed. He had regained full mobility in his right arm, though a faint, lingering stiffness remained, especially when the weather turned cold. The estate renovation was moving rapidly, the new west wing rising from the ashes of the old, reflecting the sunlight from the massive, modern windows.
It was a Tuesday evening. We were back at the estate, having spent the day reviewing the final material selections for the main foyer.
Tristan was in the temporary master suite, supposedly showering. I was in the small library, packing my laptop and blueprints into my bag.
"Mina."
I turned around.
Tristan was standing in the doorway. He wasn't wearing sweatpants or a casual sweater. He was wearing a dark, impeccably tailored suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tie.
"You're dressed up," I noted, my heart giving a sudden, unexpected flutter. "I thought we were just ordering in tonight."
"We are," he said, stepping into the room. He closed the heavy oak doors behind him. "But I wanted to do this right."
He walked toward me. He stopped a few feet away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box.
My breath caught in my throat. The air in the library suddenly felt very still.
I looked at the box, then up to his face.
He didn't open the box immediately. He held it in his left hand, his thumb tracing the smooth velvet.
"A few months ago," Tristan began, his voice low and steady, "I asked you a question in the kitchen. I asked you to pretend the last five years didn't happen. I asked you to just come back to me."
He paused, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips.
"It was arrogant," he admitted. "And it was cowardly. I was trying to skip the hard part. I was trying to build a roof without pouring a foundation."
He took a step closer.
"But we poured the foundation, Mina," he said, his eyes locking onto mine, burning with a quiet, absolute certainty. "We dug up the dirt. We faced the ghosts. We did the work."
He opened the box.
It wasn't the ring he had given me five years ago. That ring had been sold to pay for my apartment in Milan.
This ring was different. It was an antique, an intricate band of woven platinum holding a stunning, vintage-cut sapphire, surrounded by a halo of small diamonds.
"Tristan," I breathed.
He didn't drop to his knee. We had already agreed that we needed to stand on the same level. He stood tall in front of me, offering the ring.
"I don't want to go back to what we had," he said softly. "I want to build something entirely new. I want to build a life with a woman who isn't afraid to fight me, who isn't afraid to forgive me, and who makes me want to be a better man every single day."
He took my left hand in his, his thumb stroking my bare ring finger.
"Minerva," he asked, the question hanging heavy and beautiful in the air. "Will you marry me? Again."
I looked at the sapphire, its deep blue depths catching the light of the library lamp.
I loved him. I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.
But as I looked at the ring, a heavy knot formed in the center of my chest.
I closed my eyes.
I am a Senator's wife! Agatha’s voice shrieked in my memory, a chilling reminder of how easily the title could be used as a weapon, or stripped away.
I opened my eyes. Tristan was watching me, his expression faltering slightly as the silence stretched on too long. He saw the hesitation.
"Mina?" he asked softly.
I gently pulled my hand out of his grasp.
"Tristan," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "It's beautiful. It's the most beautiful ring I've ever seen."
The hope in his eyes shattered. He knew a 'but' was coming.
"But I can't," I said, the tears springing to my eyes, blurring his face. "I can't say yes."
He stood perfectly still. The velvet box remained open in his hand.
"Why?" he asked, his voice completely devoid of anger. It was just a quiet, hollow question.
"Because I'm terrified," I admitted, stepping back, needing space to breathe. "I love you. You know I love you. But the idea of being a wife again... of giving someone that kind of legal, institutional power over my life..."
I wrapped my arms around myself, fighting a sudden chill.
"The last time I was your wife, it almost destroyed me," I said, my voice trembling. "When you threw me out, you didn't just break my heart. You erased me. You took my home, my reputation, my security. You had the power to do that because of a piece of paper."
Tristan snapped the box shut. The sharp click echoed in the library.
"I would never do that again," he vowed, stepping toward me. "I swear to you, Mina. I would die before I let anything hurt you."
"I know that," I sobbed, wiping a tear from my cheek. "I know it in my head. But my body doesn't know it. My instincts don't know it. The thought of signing those papers... of putting myself back in that position of absolute vulnerability..."
I shook my head.
"I'm not ready to be a wife again, Tristan," I told him honestly. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready."
He stared at me.
I waited for the anger. I waited for the frustration. I waited for him to demand that I trust him, to argue that he had proven himself.
But he didn't.
He didn't raise his voice.
He slowly lowered his hand, slipping the velvet box back into his pocket.
"Okay," Tristan said softly.
I stopped crying, staring at him in shock. "Okay?"
"Okay," he repeated. He took a slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly, releasing the tension. "You're not ready. I understand."
"You're not angry?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"I'm angry at myself," he admitted, a wry, bitter smile touching his lips. "For thinking I could erase five years of trauma with a grand gesture and a pretty ring."
He walked over to me.
"I told you I was going to spend the rest of my life proving I'm worthy of you," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "If that means we spend the rest of our lives exactly as we are right now, without a ring, without a piece of paper... I accept that."
I looked up at him, my heart breaking with love and profound relief.
"I'm not saying never," I whispered. "I'm just saying not yet."
"I have time, Minerva," he promised, his eyes burning with an unshakable, quiet devotion. "I'm not going anywhere."