Chapter 105 Respect
He nodded, pulling out his pen and writing REJECTED across the top of the file in bold black ink.
"Done," he said.
It was a small thing, a single file in a mountain of paperwork. But to me, it was monumental. He was actively dismantling the ruthless Titan, piece by piece, and inviting me to help him build the new man.
Spring arrived in New York.
The heavy snows melted, replaced by a cool, biting rain that eventually gave way to sharp, clear sunshine.
The estate renovation was accelerating. The west wing was fully framed, the new roof secured. The interior work was moving rapidly.
I was standing in the center of the unfinished nursery, holding a tablet containing the lighting schematics. The room smelled of fresh drywall and sawdust.
Tristan walked in.
His arm was completely free of any braces or slings. He moved with his old, fluid grace, the stiffness almost entirely gone.
"The foreman needs you in the solarium," Tristan announced, stopping beside me. "Something about the reinforced glass framing not aligning with the original brickwork."
"Of course it doesn't," I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I told them the brickwork was warped on the north side."
I started to turn toward the door, but Tristan caught my arm.
"Take a breath," he advised softly.
He pulled me against his chest, wrapping both arms around me. It was a firm, solid embrace. I rested my cheek against his shirt, breathing in the clean scent of his cologne mixed with the sawdust.
"I'm breathing," I mumbled.
"You're stressed," he corrected, his hand stroking my back. "You've been working fourteen-hour days, Mina. You need to slow down."
"We're behind schedule on the main foyer."
"I don't care about the schedule. I own the company that's doing the renovation. We can take another year if we need to."
He pulled back slightly, looking down at me.
"Go sort out the glass," he said. "Then, I want you to pack a bag."
"A bag? For what?"
"For the weekend," he said, a small, secretive smile playing on his lips. "I'm kidnapping you."
"Tristan, I can't leave the site this weekend. The marble delivery for the master bathroom is—"
"Marco will handle the marble," Tristan interrupted firmly. "You and I are leaving."
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
He kissed my forehead and practically pushed me toward the door.
I spent the next two hours arguing with the foreman, finally resolving the glass issue through sheer stubbornness and a very detailed architectural diagram.
When I got back to the temporary master suite, a small overnight bag was already sitting on the bed.
"I packed for you," Tristan announced, coming out of the bathroom. He was wearing dark jeans and a casual black sweater.
I looked at the bag suspiciously. "Did you pack anything practical, or is it just lingerie?"
He offered a wicked grin. "A healthy mix of both. Now, come on. The helicopter is waiting."
"Helicopter?"
He didn't answer. He just grabbed the bag and took my hand.
We flew out of the city as the sun began to set, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and purple. The helicopter flew north, following the coastline.
We landed an hour later on a small, private helipad nestled in the woods of upstate New York.
A sleek black SUV was waiting. We drove for another twenty minutes down a winding, unpaved road, finally emerging into a clearing.
I gasped.
Sitting in the center of the clearing, surrounded by towering pine trees, was a small, modern cabin. It was constructed almost entirely of glass and dark, reclaimed wood. Warm light spilled from the massive windows, illuminating the small porch.
"What is this?" I asked, turning to Tristan in the back seat.
"It's a cabin," he said simply.
"I can see that. Whose is it?"
"Ours," he said.
The car stopped. Davis opened the door for us.
Tristan led me up the wooden steps to the porch. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The interior was stunning. It was open-concept, with a massive stone fireplace dominating one wall and comfortable, overstuffed leather furniture arranged around it. The kitchen was small but state-of-the-art.
But it was the isolation that struck me most. There were no neighbors. There was no traffic noise. There was just the wind in the trees and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
"I bought the land a month ago," Tristan explained, walking up behind me as I stared out the back window into the dark woods. "I had the firm fast-track the construction."
He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against him.
"I know the estate is our home," he said softly, his breath warm against my ear. "But it's also a battleground. It's where the trap was set. It's where we almost lost everything."
He turned me around.
"I wanted us to have a place that has absolutely no history," he told me, his amber eyes serious. "A place with no ghosts. No memories of Ida. No memories of the trial. Just a place that belongs entirely to us, from the ground up."
I looked around the beautiful, quiet cabin. The gesture was immense. It wasn't just a weekend getaway; it was a tangible, physical manifestation of his promise to build a new foundation.
"It's perfect," I whispered, the tears pricking my eyes.
"It's a start," he corrected gently.