Chapter 12 Workplace
I sat behind the wheel of my Range Rover, watching the iron gates of the Johnston Estate swing open. Behind me, a convoy of three white vans followed, their engines idling impatiently. They weren't unmarked vans. They bore the logo of Veridian Designs in sharp, geometric black lettering.
"Let’s go," I whispered to the rearview mirror, checking my lipstick.
I drove up the winding gravel driveway. The house loomed ahead, gray and stoic against the overcast sky. It looked like a beast that had been sleeping for a hundred years, unaware that the butcher had just arrived with a knife.
I parked right in front of the main entrance, blocking the stairs. My crew spilled out of the vans before I even killed the engine.
There was Russo, my foreman, a man built like a vending machine with a sledgehammer. There was Kenji, my tech specialist, who could find a microchip in a haystack. And there were six others demo guys, painters, electricians. My people. Not Ida’s spies. Not Tristan’s loyalists. Mine.
I stepped out of the car. The air smelled of rain and impending violence.
The front doors opened.
Tristan stood there.
He looked like he hadn't slept since he left my hotel room. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt that clung to his chest, his feet bare against the cold stone of the porch. He held a mug of coffee in one hand, looking down at the small army I had assembled on his lawn.
"Subtle," he said, his voice rough with morning huskiness.
"I don't do subtle, Tristan. I do structural." I walked up the stairs, my combat boots loud on the stone. "You signed the contract. Full access. My crew. My rules."
He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes tracking Russo, who was currently unloading a massive crate of tools that looked suspiciously like weapons.
"I expected a team," Tristan said, stepping aside to let me pass. "I didn't realize you were invading Poland."
"The house is the enemy," I said, breezing past him into the foyer. "Treat it accordingly."
I stopped in the center of the grand hall. It was exactly as I remembered it. Cold, echoing, filled with portraits of dead people who judged you with their painted eyes. But the silence was different now. The staff was gone. The house felt hollowed out, waiting to be filled.
"Where are we setting up?" Tristan asked, closing the door behind us. The lock clicked with a finality that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"The library," I said.
He stiffened. "The library? Why not the solar? Or the conservatory?"
"Because the library is the heart of the house," I turned to face him. "It’s where you spend your evenings. It’s where you brood. It’s where the power is. So, I’m taking it."
I signaled to Russo. "Clear it out. Everything goes."
Tristan choked on his coffee. "Everything?"
"Everything."
The next three hours were a symphony of destruction.
I stood in the center of the library, directing traffic like a conductor. The heavy velvet drapes were ripped down, exposing the tall, gothic windows to the harsh daylight. The antique Persian rugs were rolled up and hauled away, revealing the hardwood floors underneath.
Tristan stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching the desecration of his sanctuary.
He looked irritated. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. But he didn't stop us. He just watched, his eyes following me as I moved around the room.
I was wearing black cargo pants and a fitted tank top, my arms bare. I caught him staring at the small tattoo on my bicep, a geometric line drawing of a compass. He’d never seen it before. I saw his gaze linger on the ink, then drift to the sweat glistening on my collarbone.
Fascinated. And annoyed that he was fascinated.
"Careful with that desk," Tristan barked as two of my guys lifted the massive mahogany executive desk, his grandfather’s desk. "It’s from the 18th century."
"It’s hideous," I corrected. "It smells like cigars and patriarchy. Put it in storage, Russo. If it scratches, I don't care."
Tristan pushed off the doorframe. "That desk is where I built my company, Minerva."
"And this table," I said, pointing to the sleek, glass-and-steel drafting table Kenji was assembling in its place, "is where I’m going to save your life. So, adjust your priorities."
He glared at me. I glared back.
For a moment, the noise of the drills and the shouting workmen faded. It was just us. The tension was a physical thing, a wire pulled taut between our chests. He hated that I was changing things. He hated that I was erasing the smell of him from the room.
But he also looked like he wanted to drag me over the sleek new table and wreck me.
"You’re enjoying this," he murmured, stepping over a pile of discarded books.
"Immensely."
"You’re trying to provoke me."
"Is it working?"
He stopped inches from me. He smelled of soap and sawdust now. "You’re erasing the house, Mina. But you can't erase the memories. I remember bending you over that desk you just deported."
My breath hitched. My face heated, betraying me.
"Rule number three," I hissed. "No reminiscing."
"I’m not reminiscing," he said, his voice dropping to a velvet purr. "I’m stating a fact. You can strip the wallpaper, you can change the furniture, but the ghosts are still here. They’re in the floorboards."
"Then we’ll rip up the floorboards too," I said, turning my back on him. "Kenji! Bring in the lights. It’s too dark in here."
By noon, the library was unrecognizable.
The dark, oppressive cave was gone. In its place was a workspace that looked like a surgical theater. Bright, white LED lights flooded the room. The walls were stripped bare of the damask wallpaper, leaving the rough plaster exposed. My glass desk sat in the center, flanked by monitors and blueprints.
I sat in my ergonomic chair, spinning slightly. Tristan was sitting on a plastic crate in the corner, the only seat I had left for him. He looked ridiculous, a billionaire on a milk crate, nursing his third cup of coffee.
"It looks like a hospital," he critiqued, looking around. "Or a morgue."
"It looks like the truth," I said, typing on my laptop. "No shadows for rats to hide in. Speaking of which... Kenji swept the room?"
"Clean," Tristan confirmed. "He found two microphones in the molding. Old ones. Wired."
"Ida," I said.
"Ida," he agreed. The name hung in the air like a curse.
I tapped my pen against the glass desk. "She’s been quiet today. No tweets. No texts. It makes me nervous."
"She’s regrouping," Tristan said. "She tried to call security at the gate an hour ago. They turned her away. She screamed until the police threatened to cite her for disturbing the peace."
I smiled. A genuine, vicious smile. "Good."
"You like hurting her."
"I like justice, Tristan. Pain is just a byproduct."
"And me?" He looked at me from his crate. "Do you like hurting me?"
I stopped typing. I looked at him.
"You’re the client," I said. "Pain isn't in the contract. But discomfort? Discomfort is necessary for growth."
He stood up, kicking the crate aside. He walked toward my desk.
"I’m uncomfortable," he admitted. "I hate this room. I hate the lights. I hate that you’re sitting there looking like you own the place when five years ago you wouldn't even pick a paint color without asking for my permission."
"That girl was trying to please you," I said softly. "I’m trying to survive you."
He placed his hands on the glass desk, leaning in. "You’re doing more than surviving, Mina. You’re thriving. And it’s..." He searched for the word. "It’s infuriating. Because I missed it. I missed watching you become this."
"You didn't miss it, Tristan. You caused it. Steel is forged in fire. You provided the fire."
He stared at me, his eyes dark and heavy. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
We both jumped.
It wasn't a workman.
It was Lorelei Vance.
She stood in the doorway, dressed in a pristine white riding habit, looking like she had just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Her face was flushed, her chest heaving.
She looked around the stripped room, her eyes widening in horror.
"Tristan!" she shrieked. "What have you done to the library? Where are the drapes? Where is Grandfather’s desk?"
Tristan straightened up, groaning audibly. "Lorelei. How did you get in?"
"I have a key!" she snapped, marching into the room. She stopped when she saw me sitting behind the glass desk. Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled sulfur. "And what is she doing here? Sitting there like... like the CEO of a tech startup?"
"I am the CEO of a design firm," I said calmly. "And you’re tracking mud on my clean floor."
Lorelei looked down at her riding boots. There was, indeed, a smudge of mud. She looked back up, furious.
"Tristan, tell her to leave," Lorelei demanded. "This is your home. Not a construction site. And certainly not a... a workspace for your ex-wife."
"It is a construction site," Tristan said, rubbing his temples. "We’re renovating. I told you this."
"You said you were fixing a few cracks! You didn't say you were letting her turn the Johnston Estate into an Apple Store!"
I laughed. I couldn't help it.
Lorelei spun on me. "You think this is funny?"
"I think you’re funny," I said. "You’re upset about drapes when there are cameras in the walls watching you pee."
Lorelei froze. "What?"
Tristan sighed. "Minerva..."
"No, tell her," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Tell her why we’re really tearing the walls down. Tell her about the peepholes. Tell her about Ida."
Tristan looked at Lorelei. He looked exhausted. "Ida bugged the house, Lorelei. For years. We’re sweeping it."
Lorelei blinked. She processed this information slowly, like a computer running on dial-up.
"Ida?" she whispered. "But... Ida is so sweet. She introduced us."
"Exactly," I said. "She introduced you because she thought you were manageable. A nice, pretty prop to hang on Tristan’s arm while she ran the show. But now the show is canceled."
Lorelei’s face turned a mottled red. She looked at Tristan. "Is this true? You’re letting her say these things?"
"It’s true," Tristan said quietly. "Ida is banned from the property."
Lorelei looked as if the world had tilted on its axis. She looked at the stark white room, the industrial lights, the glass desk. She looked at me, sitting in the seat of power.
And then, she did something unexpected. She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She smiled. A tight, condescending, territorial smile.
"Well," she said, smoothing her riding jacket. "It’s good that you’re being thorough, Tristan. Safety first." She walked over to him and placed a hand on his arm, staking her claim. "But really, darling, this aesthetic? It’s so... cold. So unfeeling. Just like her."
She cast a pitying glance at me.
"Minerva always did lack warmth," Lorelei said. "That’s why you left her, isn't it? You needed a woman, not a statue."
I felt a flash of anger, hot and sharp. Not because she insulted me, but because she touched him. Because she stood there in my workspace, in the house I was reclaiming, and tried to rewrite my history.
I stood up.
"Tristan didn't leave me because I lacked warmth," I said, walking around the desk. I moved slowly, predatory. "He left me because he was manipulated by a sociopath. But you’re right about one thing, Lorelei. I am cold."
I stopped in front of them. I was taller than her in my boots.
"I’m the blizzard," I whispered. "And you’re wearing a light jacket."
Lorelei stepped back, intimidated despite herself.
"Tristan," she whimpered. "Are you going to let her threaten me?"
Tristan looked at me. There was that look again. He wasn't defending her. He was watching me like I was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.
"She’s not threatening you, Lorelei," Tristan said. "She’s giving you a weather forecast."
I smirked.
"Now," I said, turning back to my desk. "Get out. Both of you. I have work to do, and your perfume is clashing with the smell of progress."
"Tristan!" Lorelei gasped.
"Come on," Tristan said, guiding her toward the door. "Let her work."
He looked back at me one last time before he left. His eyes met mine. There was a message there. I’m trying.
I didn't acknowledge it. I just pointed to the door.
When they were gone, the silence rushed back in. But it wasn't the heavy silence of the old house. It was the humming silence of the LED lights.
I sat down, my heart pounding.
I had done it. I had claimed the room. I had faced down the fiancé. I had made Tristan look at me with awe instead of pity.
But my eyes drifted to the corner of the room.
To the spot where the window seat used to be. The one I had ordered Russo to destroy with a sledgehammer an hour ago.
I remembered the memory.
I was sitting there, reading. It was raining. Tristan came in, soaking wet from the garden. He didn't say anything. He just walked over, pulled me into his lap, and buried his face in my neck.
"Rough day?" I had asked.
"Just hold me," he had whispered. "Just be my peace."
I had held him. I had loved being his peace.
I stared at the empty corner. The wood was splintered where the built-in bench had been ripped out. It looked like a wound.
I grabbed a blueprint and rolled it out, covering the glass desk.
"No peace," I whispered to the empty, white room. "Not anymore."
I picked up my phone and dialed Russo.
"Yeah, Boss?"
"The Master Bedroom," I said. "Is the wall open?"
"It's wide open. We found the cameras you talked about. And... something else."
My grip tightened on the phone. "What else?"
"You better come up here," Russo said, his voice grim. "It’s... weird. It’s inside the ventilation shaft."