Chapter 13 Insults
I stood on the second-floor landing, looking down into the foyer. It was Tuesday, twenty-four hours after I had seized control of the library. My crew was moving like a well-oiled machine, stripping the hallway of its suffocating, dark oak paneling. The sound of crowbars prying wood from plaster was a violent, rhythmic music that soothed the headache pulsing behind my eyes.
"Careful with the wiring on the south wall," I called down to Russo. "The schematics show a junction box that hasn't been updated since the Great Depression."
"Got it, Boss," Russo grunted, ripping a panel free with a satisfying sound.
I took a sip of my black coffee, feeling a grim satisfaction. The house was bleeding. We were opening its veins, letting out the stale air of the last century. Every wall we opened was a victory against Ida. Every room we stripped was a reclamation of territory.
But peace is a luxury I couldn't afford.
The front doors swung open. They didn't just open; they were thrown wide with an entitlement that sucked the air out of the room.
"Stop! Stop everything immediately!"
The voice was high, shrill, and pierced through the noise of the construction like a drill.
Russo paused, his crowbar hovering in mid-air. My crew looked toward the door.
Lorelei Vance marched into the foyer. She wasn't wearing a riding habit today. She was dressed in a pastel pink Chanel suit that looked ludicrous against the backdrop of debris and drywall dust. Behind her trailed two men in skinny suits holding fabric swatches and a terrified-looking woman clutching a clipboard.
"Who is in charge here?" Lorelei demanded, stepping over a pile of splintered wood with a look of utter disgust. "This is vandalism!"
I sighed, setting my coffee cup on the railing. I walked down the grand staircase slowly, letting my boots thud heavy on the steps.
"It’s called renovation, Lorelei," I said. "Though I suppose to the untrained eye, progress often looks like a mess."
She looked up, her eyes narrowing when they landed on me.
"You," she spat. "I might have known. Tristan told me you were 'working,' but I didn't realize he meant you were gutting the family legacy like a fish."
She turned to the men behind her. "Take measurements. I want this paneling restored. And find out if they’ve damaged the crown molding. If they have, I’m suing."
"Excuse me?" I reached the bottom of the stairs, stepping into her path. "Who are these people?"
"This is my design team," Lorelei announced, gesturing to the skinny suits. "From Vance & Co. Since you clearly have no respect for the history of this estate, I’ve decided to step in as the creative director. I won't let you turn Tristan’s home into a sterile airport terminal."
I stared at her. The audacity was breathtaking. It was almost impressive.
"Creative director?" I repeated, my voice flat. "Lorelei, look around. You’re standing in a hard hat zone in six-inch heels. You’re not a director. You’re a liability."
"I am the future mistress of this house!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Agatha agrees with me. We are not going to let a bitter, disgraced ex-wife erase the Johnston identity just because she has a grudge!"
She snapped her fingers at her minions. "Start measuring. I want silk damask on these walls. Yellow. To bring in the light."
One of the skinny suits stepped forward, reaching for a tape measure.
"Touch that wall," I said softly, "and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing."
The man froze. He looked from me to Lorelei, confused.
"Don't listen to her!" Lorelei screeched. "She’s just the contractor! I am the fiancée!"
"You’re the obstacle," I corrected.
I turned to Russo. "Russo?"
"Yeah, Boss?" Russo stepped forward, hefting his crowbar. He was six-foot-four and covered in drywall dust and tattoos. He looked like a golem made of concrete.
" escort these gentlemen out," I said. "They’re disrupting the workflow."
"With pleasure." Russo cracked his knuckles.
The two designers didn't wait to be escorted. They scrambled backward toward the door, clutching their swatches like shields.
"You can't do this!" Lorelei screamed, her face turning a blotchy, unattractive red. "Tristan! Tristan!"
She started yelling his name like a child waking up from a nightmare.
"He’s not here," I lied. Tristan was actually in the solar, on a conference call with Tokyo. I had sent him there specifically to keep him out of my way. "And even if he were, he signed a contract. I have total autonomy, Lorelei. That means I pick the paint. I pick the wood. And I pick who stays on the property."
I took a step closer to her. She smelled of peonies and desperation.
"You have five seconds to leave," I said. "Or I call security. And unlike the designers, I won't be gentle about it."
Lorelei stood her ground. Her chest was heaving. She wasn't just angry; she was threatened. Deeply, existentially threatened. She looked at the stripped walls, the exposed beams, and she didn't see construction. She saw me erasing her future.
"You think you’re winning," she hissed, lowering her voice so the workmen couldn't hear. "You think because he kissed you in that video, because the internet thinks you’re some tragic heroine, that you have him back."
"I don't want him back," I said.
"Liar," she sneered. "I see the way you look at him. You’re starving for him. But you forget something, Minerva. You’re damaged goods. You’re the woman who was dragged through the mud. Even if he wants you... he can't have you. Not really. He needs the Senate’s support. He needs my father. You’re just a dirty little secret he’s keeping in the guest room."
The words struck a nerve. Not because they were true, but because they echoed the insecurities I had buried five years ago. Damaged goods. Not enough.
I forced a smile. It felt like glass shattering on my face.
"A secret?" I asked. "Lorelei, darling, I’m the headline. You’re the footnote."
"We’ll see," she said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a rolled-up magazine. She slapped it against my chest.
I grabbed it before it fell.
It was Architectural Digest. But not a current issue. It was old. Five years old.
She had bookmarked a page.
I looked down.
It was a feature on the "Johnston Restoration." A project I had started when I was first married. I had wanted to update the nursery. The article featured sketches of a soft, whimsical room with hand-painted murals of clouds.
"I found this in the library," Lorelei said, her voice dripping with venom. "Before you gutted it. Look at those designs, Minerva. Soft. Hopeful. Maternal."
She leaned in close.
"That woman is dead," she whispered. "You killed her when you decided to be a whore. And now? All you can design are cold, hard boxes. Because that’s all you are inside. A cold, hard box."
My hand tightened on the magazine, crumbling the glossy paper.
The nursery.
I had forgotten about that article. I had forgotten about the hope I had poured into those sketches, believing I was pregnant, believing we were building a family. Before the accusation. Before the fall.
"You’re projecting, Lorelei," I said, my voice steady despite the tremors in my hands. "You call my work cold because you don't understand structural integrity. You think slapping yellow silk on a rotting wall makes it a home. It just makes it a pretty coffin."
"Tristan hates your new designs," she lied. "He told me. He says they make him feel empty."
"Tristan gave me the deed to the house if I find another camera," I countered. "Does he give you deeds, Lorelei? Or just allowances?"
Her eyes bulged. "He... he gave you the deed?"
"Leverage," I said. "Now, get out of my foyer. You’re blocking the light."
Lorelei snatched the magazine back from my hand. "This isn't over. Agatha is calling the board. We’re going to have your contract voided for incompetence."
"Good luck with that. My incompetence just won the Pritzker nomination."
She scoffed, spun on her heel, and stormed out, her pink suit a retreating blotch of failure.
When the door slammed shut, the silence rushed back in.
Russo looked at me, leaning on his crowbar. "You okay, Boss?"
"I'm fine," I said.
I wasn't fine.
I walked to the side table where I had left my coffee. My hands were shaking so hard the dark liquid rippled like a storm surge.
A cold, hard box.
Is that what I was?
I looked at the stripped walls. The raw wood. The exposed wires.
Was I fixing the house? Or was I just flaying it because I wanted it to hurt as much as I did?
"Boss?" Russo asked again, concerned.
"Back to work," I snapped. "Tear down the south wall. I want it gone by lunch."
I retreated to the library.
I needed to work. Work was the only thing that made sense. Things that didn't lie. Things that didn't have sisters who framed you or fiancées who weaponized your past hopes.
I sat at the glass desk and opened the file for the Master Suite.
The door opened.
I didn't look up. "If you’re wearing pink, turn around."
"I prefer black," Tristan said.
I looked up. He was standing there, holding a tablet. He looked agitated.
"Lorelei just called me," he said. "She was hysterical. She said you threatened to have her arrested."
"I threatened to have her trespassers arrested." I corrected.
He walked into the room, closing the door. The soundproofing was excellent. The noise of the demolition faded to a dull thrum.
"She said you insulted her," he said.
"She insulted my work. She called it sterile."
"She said you called her a footnote."
I shrugged. "Accuracy is important in my field."
Tristan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He walked over to the desk and sat on the edge of it, invading my space.
"Agatha is furious," he said. "She’s calling for a family meeting tonight. She wants to discuss your 'conduct.'"
"I don't attend family meetings," I said, typing on my laptop. "I’m not family."
"You are to me," he murmured.
I stopped typing. I looked at his hand resting on the glass desk, inches from mine.
"Don't start," I warned.
"She showed me the magazine," he said softly.
My heart stopped.
"The one with the nursery sketches," he continued. "She brought it to the solar. She thought it would make me see how much you’ve 'changed.' How you’ve lost your touch."
I stared at the screen, my vision blurring. "And?"
"And I looked at them," he said. His voice was thick, rough with emotion. "I remember when you drew those. You were so excited. You bought that yellow paint samples."
"It was a long time ago, Tristan."
"It was five years. It feels like a lifetime." He leaned closer. "She thinks those sketches prove you’re broken. But when I looked at them... I just saw what I stole from you."
I looked up at him. His eyes were wet.
"You didn't steal it," I whispered. "You destroyed it. There’s a difference."
"I know." He swallowed hard. "Lorelei wants me to fire you. She says your new designs are an attack on the family."
"Are you going to?"
"Fire you?" He laughed, a dark, dry sound. "Minerva, watching you tear this house apart is the most aroused I’ve been in five years."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He stood up, pacing away from the desk as if he couldn't handle the proximity. "You think your work is cold? It’s not cold. It’s furious. Every wall you knock down, every dark corner you expose... it’s passion. You’re screaming at this house, and it’s beautiful."
He turned to look at me.
"Lorelei wants damask and tradition because she wants to pretend everything is fine," he said. "She wants to cover the rot with silk. But you... you’re the only one brave enough to look at the rot and say, 'cut it out.'"
I felt a lump form in my throat. I hated him for understanding. I hated him for seeing the violence in my architecture and calling it beautiful.
"So you’re keeping me?" I asked, my voice tight.
"I’m doubling your budget," he said. "I want you to finish the east wing. I want you to make it unrecognizable. I want you to make it so that when I walk through those halls, I don't see my father, or Agatha, or Ida. I want to see you."
"That’s dangerous, Tristan."
"I like danger."
He walked back to the desk.
"But Lorelei is right about one thing," he said.
"What?"
"You are building a fortress." He tapped the blueprints on my screen. "Reinforced steel doors. Biometric locks on the bedroom. Soundproof glass. You’re not building a home, Mina. You’re building a panic room."
"Given your sister’s hobbies, can you blame me?"
"No," he said. "But a fortress keeps people out. Eventually, you have to let someone in."
"Not today," I said.
"No," he agreed. "Not today."
He checked his watch.
"I have to go to the office," he said. "Agatha is waiting to ambush me. I need to go tell her that if she interferes with your crew again, I’m cutting off her access to the country club."
I smirked. "That’s cruel."
"It’s structural," he echoed my words.
He walked to the door.
"Tristan," I called out.
He stopped.
"The nursery," I said quietly. "The design... it wasn't just hopeful. It was naive. Children don't need clouds painted on the ceiling. They need parents who trust each other."
He flinched. He didn't turn around, but I saw his shoulders slump.
"I’m working on the trust," he whispered.
"Work harder."
He left.
I sat in the silence of the library.
I pulled up the file on my laptop labeled ARCHIVE.
I clicked on it.
Inside was a scan of the old nursery sketch. The yellow clouds. The soft lines. The hope.
I looked at it for a long minute.
Then, I pressed delete.
The file vanished.
I opened a new file.
Project: MASTER SUITE - REVISION 2.
I started drawing. Sharp lines. Dark wood. Steel accents.
Lorelei wanted warmth? I would give her fire.
But first, I had to deal with the real problem.
Lorelei wasn't just an annoyance. She was a symptom. The fact that she had found that magazine, hidden in the library, meant she had been digging. Or... someone had given it to her.
Ida.
Ida was feeding Lorelei ammunition. Ida was using the Senator’s daughter as a proxy war.
I picked up my phone. I dialed Kenji.
"Hey, Boss."
"Kenji," I said. "I need you to hack something for me."
"Legal or illegal?"
"Gray area."
"I'm listening."
"Lorelei Vance," I said. "She’s the Senator’s daughter. I want to know everything. Emails, texts, DMs. Specifically, any communication with Ida Stevens."
"You think they’re working together?"
"I think Lorelei is a puppet," I said. "And I want to see the strings."
"On it. Give me two hours."