Chapter 11 Bait
I sat cross-legged on the pristine white duvet of my hotel bed, the room illuminated only by the cold, blue light of my laptop screen. Beside me, a room service tray held the remnants of a club sandwich and a pot of coffee that had gone cold hours ago.
I watched the view count tick up.
10,000 views.
50,000 views.
100,000 views.
Ida had done it. She had taken the bait. She had uploaded the video to a burner account on Twitter, tagging every major gossip rag in the city. She had captioned it: The "innocent" ex-wife caught seducing Tristan Johnston. Once a cheater, always a cheater.
She thought she had dropped a bomb on my reputation. She thought the world would see a desperate woman clawing at her wealthy ex-husband, trying to wreck his new, perfect engagement.
She was wrong.
I clicked on the comments. They were scrolling so fast they were a blur of text.
@CityGirl99: "Umm... excuse me? Is that Tristan Johnston? I thought he was ice cold. That man is ON FIRE."
@RomanceRebel: "Forget the politics. Did you see the way he grabbed her neck? That is not 'seducing.' That is POSSESSION. I need a cold shower."
@TruthSeeker: "Wait, isn't he engaged to the Senator's daughter? Lorelei Vance? She must be crying into her pearls right now. He never looks at her like that."
@ArchitectFan: "Minerva Hayes is a boss. Look at her hands. She’s fighting him, then she’s kissing him back. That is pure, toxic, beautiful drama. #TeamMinerva"
I leaned back against the pillows, a dry, humorless smile touching my lips.
Ida had made a classic villain mistake. She assumed the public cared about morality. They didn't. They cared about chemistry. They cared about passion. And the grainy, night-vision footage of Tristan and me in that dirty tunnel was the most raw, undeniable thing anyone had seen from the Johnston family in a decade.
It didn't make me look like a mistress. It made me look like the main character.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Tristan.
I let it ring.
It buzzed again. And again.
Finally, I picked up.
"You're welcome," I said into the receiver.
"You told her to do it," Tristan’s voice was a low growl. He sounded like he was pacing. I could hear the echo of the empty penthouse he supposedly wasn't staying in.
"I didn't tell her to do anything," I corrected, examining my fingernails. "I just dared her. There’s a difference."
"Minerva, it’s everywhere. The board is calling me. My publicist is having a stroke. Lorelei is..." He trailed off, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath.
"Lorelei is what? Humiliated?"
"She’s hysterical. She’s demanding I issue a statement saying you assaulted me."
I laughed. "Assaulted you? The video clearly shows you initiating contact, Tristan. You cornered me. You grabbed me. If anyone is getting sued, it’s you."
"I know!" he shouted. "I know that! That’s why I can't issue the statement! Which means Lorelei looks like a fool, and her father is threatening to pull his support for the Opera House zoning permits!"
"Then let him," I said cold. "If the Opera House depends on who you sleep with, the foundation is rotten anyway."
"Why did you do it?" His voice dropped, losing the anger, replacing it with that terrifying, hungry confusion I had seen in the tunnel. "Why let the world see that? You said you hated it. You said it was trauma."
"It was a strategic strike," I said. "Ida wanted to hold that video over my head. She wanted to blackmail me into submission. By letting it out, I burned her leverage. Now she has nothing."
"You burned us both to catch her."
"I told you, Tristan. I’m not here to save you. I’m here to win."
Silence stretched between us. I could hear his breathing. I closed my eyes, picturing him. I imagined him standing by a window, looking out at the city, phone pressed to his ear, hating me and wanting me in equal measure.
"I’m coming over," he said.
"No."
"I’m in the lobby, Minerva. Let me up, or I’ll buy the hotel and fire the front desk clerk for getting in my way."
I hung up.
I stared at the door.
He wouldn't. He couldn't be that reckless.
Three minutes later, a heavy knock rattled the doorframe.
I sighed. I slid off the bed and walked to the door. I didn't check the peephole. I flipped the latch and pulled it open.
Tristan stood there.
He was wearing a hoodie and dark sunglasses, looking like a celebrity trying to avoid the paparazzi and failing miserably. He pushed past me into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
He ripped the sunglasses off and threw them onto the desk.
"You are insane," he said, turning to face me. "You are actually insane."
"You’re trespassing. Again." I countered, walking back to the bed to sit down.
"The press is camped outside the estate," he said, pacing the small room. "They’re camped outside Veridian. They’re probably in the lobby right now asking the concierge what kind of toothpaste you use. Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve turned our private war into a national spectacle."
"Good," I said. "Ida thrives in the shadows, Tristan. She hides things in walls. She whispers rumors. She can't survive in the spotlight. Look at the comments."
I turned the laptop toward him.
He stopped pacing. He glared at the screen. He read a few comments, his jaw tightening with every line.
"They think we’re... in love," he whispered, reading a tweet that analyzed our body language.
"They think we’re inevitable," I corrected. "Which makes Lorelei look like the obstacle. And it makes Ida look like the bitter sister trying to keep us apart. The narrative has flipped. You’re not the victim of a cheating wife anymore. You’re the tragic hero pining for the one that got away."
Tristan looked at me. His eyes were dark, swirling with emotions I refused to name.
"Is that what I am?" he asked softly. "Pining?"
"You tell me."
He walked toward the bed. He moved slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bite. He stopped at the edge of the mattress, looking down at me.
"I’m not pining, Minerva," he said. "I’m drowning."
He reached out, his hand hovering near my face.
"Don't," I warned.
"I watched the video," he admitted. His voice was raw. "I watched it ten times before I came here. Do you know what I saw?"
"Two idiots in a crawlspace?"
"I saw that you didn't push me away," he whispered. "Not at first. For three seconds, you held on to me like I was the only solid thing in the world."
My heart stuttered. "I was in shock."
"You were hungry."
He dropped to his knees.
Tristan Johnston, the billionaire, the king of industry, knelt on the hotel carpet between my legs. He placed his hands on the duvet, boxing me in, but he didn't touch me. He looked up at me with eyes that were begging for mercy.
"Come back to the house," he said.
"Tristan..."
"Not as a guest," he interrupted. "Not as my ex-wife. Come back as the architect. I’m giving you full control. I fired the staff this morning. All of them. Mrs. Gable, the maids, the groundskeepers. Everyone Ida hired. Everyone who might be loyal to her."
I blinked. "You fired Mrs. Gable? She’s been there for twenty years."
"She let Ida into the kitchen," he said ruthlessly. "She’s compromised. I’m wiping the slate clean. New security. New staff. Your staff."
"My staff?"
"Hire whoever you want. Bring in your own people. People who answer only to you. Turn the estate into a fortress, Minerva. Make it yours."
I stared at him. He was handing me the keys to the kingdom. He was giving me the power to isolate Ida completely, to strip her of her spies and her influence.
"And Ida?" I asked.
"Banned," he vowed. "I issued the order to the new security detail an hour ago. If she steps foot on the property, she will be arrested for trespassing. I don't care if she’s my sister. I don't care if she cries. She filmed us. She violated us. She’s done."
It was everything I wanted. It was the perfect battlefield.
But looking at him, kneeling there with his soul in his eyes, I knew the danger wasn't Ida. The danger was him.
"And you?" I asked quietly. "Where will you be?"
"In the master wing," he said. "Or what’s left of it. I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll follow your rules. Just... come back. Don't leave me alone in that house with the ghosts."
I looked at the laptop screen, where the video was playing on a loop. The grainy image of us kissing. The heat. The desperation.
If I went back, that heat would consume us. I knew it. He knew it.
But if I stayed away... Ida would win. She would find a way to crawl back in. She would spin a new lie. She would win.
And I really, really hated losing.
I took a deep breath.
"Monday," I said.
Tristan exhaled, his shoulders sagging with relief. "Monday?"
"Monday morning. 8:00 AM. I’m moving my office into the library. I want the east wing cleared out. I want carte blanche on the budget. And I want a contract signed by you stating that if you violate my privacy—if I find one more camera, one more peephole—I own the estate."
Tristan’s eyes widened. "You want the deed?"
"I want leverage, Tristan. You have money. You have power. I need to know that if you hurt me again, I can take the one thing you care about."
He looked at me. He didn't hesitate.
"Done," he said. "I’ll have the lawyers draft it in the morning."
He stood up. He looked taller, stronger, as if my agreement had poured steel back into his spine.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me," I said, closing the laptop. "I’m not coming back to play house. I’m coming back to renovate. And demolition is a messy business."
"I know," he said. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I’m counting on it."
He turned and walked to the door. He paused, hand on the knob.
"Minerva?"
"What?"
"That video," he said, not looking back. "The comments are right. We look good together."
He opened the door and left.
I sat in the silence of the hotel room.
I looked at the empty space where he had been kneeling.
I picked up my phone and dialed Lonnie.
"He took the bait," I said as soon as he answered. "Again."
"You’re going back," Lonnie said. It wasn't a question. It was a resignation.
"I’m taking over, Lonnie. He fired the staff. He’s letting me bring in our own people. He’s giving me the deed if he screws up."
"He’s giving you the deed because he thinks you’ll never enforce it," Lonnie warned. "He thinks he can win you back before he breaks the rules."
"He thinks wrong."
"Does he?" Lonnie’s voice was soft. "Mina, I saw the video too."
"It was a performance, Lonnie."
"Was it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looked like you wanted to eat him alive."
"I do," I whispered, staring at the closed door. "I want to eat him alive, Lonnie. I want to leave nothing behind but bones."
"Just make sure," Lonnie said, "that you don't choke on them."
I hung up.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city. The rain had started again, washing the streets clean.
Monday.
Monday, the invasion would begin.
I wasn't just fixing a house anymore. I was performing an exorcism. And I was going to make sure that when I was done, the only spirit left in the Johnston Estate was me.
I pulled up my contacts list. I needed a crew. Not just contractors. I needed loyalists. I needed people who hated the elite as much as I did.
I started dialing.
Meanwhile, across the city...
Ida sat in her penthouse, surrounded by smashed vases and torn pillows.
She stared at her phone. The tweet had been deleted, but the damage was done. The screenshots were eternal. The video was on YouTube, on TikTok, on Reddit.
And the comments...
Sister is a psycho.
Whoever posted this is clearly jealous.
Tristan needs a restraining order against his family.
She screamed.
It was a high, thin sound of pure impotent rage. She threw her phone at the wall. It shattered, the screen spiderwebbing into a thousand cracks.
"She thinks she won," Ida hissed, her hands curling into claws. "She thinks she can take him from me."
She walked to her desk. She unlocked the bottom drawer.
Inside was a folder. Thick. Yellowed with age.
And a gun.
She ignored the gun. She reached for the folder.
"You want to play dirty, Minerva?" she whispered to the empty room. "Let’s play."
She opened the folder.
Inside were medical records. From five years ago.
Patient: Minerva Johnston.
Diagnosis: Pregnancy confirmed.
Status: Terminated.
It was a lie. A forgery she had created years ago but never used. But in the court of public opinion, a lie was just as good as the truth if you told it loud enough.
Ida smiled.
"Let’s see how he looks at you," she whispered, "when he thinks you killed his child."