Chapter 165 The Final Mastermind Is Dead
I looked at the factory file, then at him. I decided to test the waters.
"What would you do?" I asked.
Tristan stopped. He looked at the file on my desk.
"I would close it," he said. "It loses money. But you know that. You are asking if I will try to save the Johnston image in that town."
"Will you?"
"No," he said. "It is a bad asset. You have to cut the rot to save the whole. But I would set up a severance fund from my personal accounts for the workers. It softens the blow."
He did not tell me I had to do it. He just offered his perspective and stepped back.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded and turned to the door.
It was the lack of control that unsettled me the most. I braced for the hidden motive every time he spoke. I waited for the catch. But the catch never came. His patience was wearing down my defenses faster than any argument ever could.
I ran the conglomerate with an iron grip. The executives feared me. The market watched my every move. I was surrounded by people who wanted my money or my influence. Tristan was the only person who treated me like a human being. He treated me like a partner, even though I kept him at arm's length.
Late Friday evening, Tristan came to the apartment to drop off Elias's jacket. The boy had left it in Tristan's car after their afternoon trip to the museum.
I opened the door. Tristan stood in the hallway. He wore a dark coat over a plain white shirt. The hallway lights cast sharp shadows across his cheekbones. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were clear.
"He left this in the backseat," Tristan said, holding out the small blue jacket.
I took it from him. Our fingers brushed. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up my arm. I pulled my hand back, clutching the jacket against my chest.
"Thank you," I said.
"Did he like the museum?" Tristan asked.
"He has not stopped talking about the dinosaur bones," I admitted. "He asked if you could take him back to see the airplanes next week."
A genuine smile touched Tristan's lips. It transformed his face, stripping away the harsh lines of the corporate titan and leaving behind a father.
"I would like that," he said.
We stood in the doorway. The air between us crackled with unspoken words. The space felt charged, heavy with the weight of the past and the strange, fragile peace of the present. The scent of rain and cedar clung to his coat. I felt the familiar, dangerous pull in my gut. I wanted him to step inside. I wanted him to close the distance. I wanted to bury my hands in his hair and forget the war we just fought.
But he kept his hands in his pockets. He did not push. He did not exploit the vulnerability in my eyes.
"Have a good night, Mina," he said.
He turned to walk toward the elevator.
"Tristan," I called out.
He stopped and turned back.
I needed his honesty. I needed to ask him about the letter I found in the rusted metal box. I needed to know if he knew the truth about Alexander Johnston.
"My mother's letter," I started. The words felt like glass in my throat. "I found something in the warehouse. It was addressed to your grandfather."
Tristan's expression shifted. The calm patience vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. He took a step toward me.
"What did it say?" he asked.
Before I could answer, the elevator doors slid open at the end of the hall.
A woman stepped out. She wore a sharp white trench coat, her dark hair pulled into a tight knot. I recognized her from the old Johnston security files. Valentina Rosales. She was Alexander Johnston's former private investigator, a woman who vanished a decade ago when the Whitmore alliance first formed.
She looked at Tristan, then fixed her gaze on me.
"Minerva Hayes," Valentina said. Her voice carried a sharp, metallic edge. She did not sound like a woman bringing good news.
Tristan moved to stand between us, his protective instincts overriding his practiced restraint.
"Valentina," Tristan said. "You are supposed to be in Geneva."
"I was," Valentina replied. She reached into her coat and pulled out a thick manila envelope. "Until an hour ago. You need to come with me right now."
I stepped around Tristan. I was the head of the company now. I did not hide behind anyone. "What is going on?"
Valentina held the envelope out to me.
"Benedict Holloway never made it to federal lockup," she stated. The words landed like bricks on the polished floor. "His transport van was intercepted on the highway. He is dead."