Chapter 160 He Surrenders His Entire Wealth
"I did not lose it, Minerva," he said. "I handed it to the only person who actually earned it. My grandfather stole the foundation. My father squandered the trust. I broke the company trying to protect a lie. You are the only one who has ever told the truth in this building."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted drive. He set it on the table.
"These are the master codes," Tristan explained. "The private family ledgers. The overseas accounts that are not tied to the board. The keys to the estates. It is everything I have left. It belongs to you now."
I stared at the small silver drive. "You are giving me your personal wealth?"
"I am giving you my surrender," Tristan said. He forced himself to stand up. He swayed slightly, but he caught his balance against the back of the chair. "I cannot be the CEO anymore. I cannot be the Johnston heir. That name is poison. I am walking away from it."
"Where will you go?" I asked. The question caught in my throat. I hated that I cared. I hated that the thought of him walking out the door sent a spike of panic through my chest.
"To a hotel," Tristan replied. "I need to heal. And you need to figure out who you are now that the war is over."
He walked toward the door. He did not ask to stay. He did not beg for my forgiveness. He knew he had not earned the right to ask for a place in my life. He was giving me the one thing I had lacked for three years: complete control over my own choices.
As his hand touched the door handle, my phone buzzed on the table. It was a notification from Marcus.
I picked it up. A news alert filled the screen.
The media was in a frenzy. The arrest of Thomas and Benedict had dominated the headlines for an hour, but the narrative was already shifting. The talking heads on the financial networks were asking questions.
Who is Minerva Serrano?
Did the 'Mistress' manipulate her way to the top?
Is Tristan Johnston a victim of a corporate coup orchestrated by his own wife?
I stared at the screen. The anger flared again, hot and sharp. I had shown them the bank ledgers. I had shown them the fraud. But they still could not fathom that a woman from the industrial district had beaten the legacy families on her own. They needed to believe I was a seductress. They needed to believe Tristan was a victim who had been tricked into handing over the keys.
"Tristan," I said.
He stopped. He turned his head.
I turned the phone around, showing him the news feed. The chyrons scrolling across the bottom of the broadcast called me a usurper. They called me a black widow.
"They still do not believe it," I said. My voice was a tight, angry whisper. "They think I stole it from you. They think you are the tragic billionaire who lost his mind over a pretty face."
Tristan looked at the screen. His jaw tightened. The exhaustion in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, familiar fire. He looked at the news feed, and then he looked at me.
"They think I am a victim," Tristan repeated. His voice was dangerously low.
"They will never accept me," I said, setting the phone down. The weight of the crown felt heavier than ever. "I can own the shares, but I will spend the rest of my life fighting the rumor that I stole my way into this office."
Tristan let go of the door handle. He walked back toward the center of the room. The pain in his side seemed to disappear as a new, lethal determination took hold of his posture.
"No," Tristan said. "You will not spend a single day fighting that rumor."
"You cannot control the press, Tristan. We just tried."
"I do not need to control them," he stated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone. He dialed a number and put the device to his ear. "I just need to give them a picture they can never erase."
"Who are you calling?" I asked.
Tristan held up a hand, silencing me. The line connected.
"Oliver," Tristan said, speaking to his former head of public relations. "Call a press conference. Tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. On the front steps of the headquarters. Invite every major network, every financial blogger, and every tabloid editor in the city."
He listened for a moment. He shook his head.
"I do not care about the optics, Oliver," Tristan snapped. "Just set up the microphones. Tell them the former Chairman of the Johnston Group has a final statement regarding the new ownership."
Tristan hung up the phone. He dropped it onto the table next to the encrypted drive.
"What are you doing?" I demanded. My heart beat a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "You just gave me the company. You said you were walking away."
"I am walking away from the company," Tristan said. He looked at me, his gray eyes blazing with a fierce, terrifying devotion. "But I am not walking away from you. They want a story about a usurper and a victim. Tomorrow, I am going to give them the truth."
He took a step closer to me. He did not try to touch me, but the intensity of his gaze felt like a physical weight.
"Tomorrow, Minerva," Tristan whispered. "I am going to make sure the whole world knows exactly who owns me."