Chapter 17 Caretaker
I was lying on the cold stone of the porch, but I couldn't feel the chill. My body was on fire. The epinephrine Tristan had stabbed into my thigh was coursing through my veins like liquid electricity, making my heart hammer against my ribs with a violence that felt structural. It was faster than the jackhammers tearing apart the east wing.
"Stay with me," Tristan’s voice was a rough, desperate anchor in the chaos. "Mina, look at me."
I tried to focus. His face was hovering above mine, framed by the overcast sky. He was pale, his eyes wide and terrified, his pupils blown so black they swallowed the gold. There was a smear of coffee on his jaw. A smear of poison.
"You're... loud," I wheezed. My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with glass, but air was moving. The whistle was gone, replaced by a raw, rasping intake.
"I’m going to be louder until you tell me you're okay," he growled.
Then, the sirens drowned him out.
The ambulance screeched up the driveway, gravel spraying as it skidded to a halt. Doors flew open. Paramedics swarmed the porch, a blur of navy blue uniforms and urgency.
"What do we have?" a woman shouted, dropping a bag next to me.
"Anaphylaxis," Tristan barked. He didn't move away. He stayed crouched over me, protective, territorial. "Peanut ingestion. Administered one EpiPen four minutes ago. She’s conscious but struggling."
"Name?"
"Minerva. Minerva Johnston."
He used my married name. He didn't even hesitate.
I wanted to correct him. I wanted to say Hayes. I wanted to say Contractor. But my tongue felt heavy, swollen and useless in my mouth.
Strong hands lifted me onto the gurney. The movement made the world spin violently. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the nausea that rolled over me.
"Sir, you need to step back," the paramedic said.
"I’m coming with her."
"Family only in the back."
"I am her husband," Tristan lied. His voice was steel. It wasn't a request; it was a command issued by a man who owned the ground they were standing on.
The paramedic hesitated, looked at the desperation in Tristan’s face, and nodded. "Get in."
They loaded me into the back. The doors slammed shut, sealing us in a box of sterile white light and the smell of antiseptic.
Tristan sat on the bench beside the gurney. He reached out and took my hand. His grip was bone-crushing. His skin was clammy.
"Drive!" he shouted at the front.
The ambulance lurched forward.
I looked at him. He was staring at my chest, watching it rise and fall, as if his sheer will was the only thing keeping my lungs inflating.
"Ida," I whispered. It was the only word that mattered.
Tristan’s jaw tightened until a muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked down at our joined hands. His knuckles were white.
"Don't," he said hoarsely. "Don't talk about her. Not right now. Save your air."
"She... knew."
"I know." He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles. It wasn't romantic. It was an apology. It was a prayer. "I know she knew. And I’m going to deal with it. But right now, my only job is making sure you survive the trip to the hospital."
The siren wailed, a banshee scream that matched the rage building in my blood.
I closed my eyes. The drugs were making me groggy, pulling me down into a dark, chemical sleep. But even in the dark, I could feel him.
He didn't let go. Not for a second.
The Emergency Room was a different kind of chaos.
It was organized noise. Beeping monitors. Squeaking rubber shoes. The murmur of pain and bureaucracy.
I was wheeled into a trauma bay. Nurses swarmed. IVs were inserted. Steroids. Antihistamines. Fluids. They moved me from the gurney to a bed, stripping off my coveralls, leaving me in my tank top and pants.
Tristan stood in the corner.
He looked completely out of place. The billionaire in the dirty shirt, covered in drywall dust and coffee stains, looming like a gargoyle. Every time a doctor came near me, Tristan stepped forward, his posture aggressive.
"Is she stable?" he demanded of a young resident who looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"She’s stabilizing, sir. Her vitals are improving. The swelling is going down."
"She’s shivering," Tristan pointed out. "Get her a blanket."
"We’re getting one, sir—"
"Get it now."
The resident scrambled.
A warm blanket was tucked around me seconds later.
I lay there, feeling the drugs take hold. The panic of the anaphylaxis was fading, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. My body felt battered, as if I had run a marathon while holding my breath.
Tristan pulled a plastic chair next to the bed. He sat down, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He buried his face in his hands.
For a long time, the only sound was the heart monitor.
"Tristan," I croaked.
He snapped his head up. His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked wrecked.
"I’m here," he said, reaching for my hand again. "I’m right here. How do you feel?"
"Like I swallowed a cactus."
He let out a short, wet laugh. "Yeah. I imagine so."
"You look terrible," I observed.
"I feel terrible." He ran a thumb over the back of my hand. "I watched you choke, Mina. I watched you fall. And I was the one who handed you the cup."
"You didn't know."
"I should have known!" His voice rose, cracking. "She’s banned from the house. She waited at the gate. She played the repentant sister, and I bought it. I bought it because I wanted to believe she wasn't completely gone. I wanted to believe there was some humanity left in her."
He looked at me, and the pain in his eyes was devastating.
"I handed you the weapon," he whispered. "I put it to your lips."
"She would have found another way," I said. "She’s resourceful."
"She’s a monster."
He said it with a finality that chilled me. The blind loyalty, the years of defending her, the excuses—they were gone. Burned away by the sight of me gasping for air on the library floor.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But she’s not getting near you again. I have security at the hospital entrance. Russo is locking down the estate. She’s... she’s done."
His pocket buzzed.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again. A long, insistent vibration against the plastic chair.
He pulled his phone out. He looked at the screen.
His expression hardened.
"Who is it?" I asked, though I already knew.
"Lorelei," he said.
He didn't answer. He didn't decline. He just set the phone on the bedside table, face down, and let it vibrate until it stopped.
"She’s probably wondering where her coffee is," I murmured, the steroids making me loopy.
"She can wonder," Tristan said darkly. "She’s part of this. She let Ida into her head. She brought that magazine to the house."
"She’s just a pawn, Tristan. Don't waste your ammo on pawns."
"I have enough ammo for everyone."
The phone buzzed again.
Tristan didn't even look at it. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. His fingers were cool, gentle. It was a lover’s touch, not a friend’s. Not an ex-husband’s.
"Sleep," he said. "The doctor said the meds will knock you out. Just sleep."
"You should go," I mumbled, my eyelids growing heavy. "Go to work. Go to Lorelei."
"No," he said. "I’m staying."
"Why?"
"Because," he leaned in, his voice a whisper against my ear. "Because you’re the only thing in my life that is real. And I almost lost you today."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him about the journals in the safe. About the baby. About the murder. I wanted to scream that he had already lost me five years ago.
But the darkness pulled me under.
And the last thing I felt was his hand, anchoring me to the earth.
I woke up to the sound of rain hitting the window.
The room was dim. The hospital sounds had quieted to a dull hum. My throat felt better, sore, but open. The panic was gone, leaving a hollow ache in my chest.
I turned my head.
Tristan was still there.
He had moved the chair closer to the bed. He was asleep.
His head was resting on the mattress, near my hip. His hand was still holding mine, his fingers interlaced with mine even in sleep. He looked younger like this. The lines of stress on his forehead had smoothed out. His breathing was slow, rhythmic.
I watched him.
This was the man who had divorced me via courier. This was the man who had let me walk out into the rain with nothing.
But this was also the man who had stabbed me with an EpiPen and carried me out of a burning building.
I looked at his other hand, resting on his knee. It was relaxed.
I looked at the phone on the table.
The screen lit up silently. A text message.
Lorelei: Tristan, where are you? Agatha is furious. People are talking. Why are you at the hospital with HER?
I stared at the message.
He hadn't left. He hadn't answered. He was sitting in a plastic chair, guarding his ex-wife, while his fiancée imploded.
I felt a dangerous warmth bloom in my chest.
Stop it, I told myself. He’s the enemy. He’s the reason you’re here.
But was he?
Ida was the reason. Ida was the architect of our ruin. Tristan was just the demolition crew she hired.
He stirred.
He groaned low in his throat, shifting his weight. His eyes fluttered open.
He blinked, disoriented for a second. Then, he saw me watching him.
He sat up instantly, wiping a hand over his face.
"You're awake," he said, his voice rough with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Late," I said. My voice was a croak.
He reached for a plastic pitcher on the table and poured a cup of water. He held the straw to my lips.
"Drink."
I drank. The water was cool and sweet.
"Did the doctor come by?" he asked.
"I don't know. I just woke up."
"I must have dozed off." He rubbed his neck, grimacing. "These chairs are torture devices."
"You stayed," I said. It wasn't a question.
"I told you I would."
He looked at me. His gaze dropped to my neck, examining the skin.
" The rash is gone," he noted. "You look... human again."
"Thanks."
"I mean it. You looked... gray earlier. It scared the hell out of me."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed.
"Mina," he said seriously. "I need you to tell me something."
"What?"
"The journals."
My heart skipped a beat. "What about them?"
"You wouldn't let me see them. You said they were evidence. You said if I read them, I would kill her."
He paused, his eyes searching mine.
"Did she hurt you before?" he asked. "Before today?"
I looked at him. I could tell him. Right now. I could drop the bomb and watch him explode.
But looking at his exhausted face, at the coffee stain on his shirt, at the way he was holding my hand like a lifeline... I couldn't do it. Not in a hospital bed. Not when he was already on his knees.
"Yes," I whispered.
"How?"
"She..." I swallowed. "She made sure we were never happy, Tristan. Every fight we had. Every doubt you felt. She planted them. She whispered in your ear, and she whispered in mine."
"That’s manipulation," he said. "That’s not... that’s not what I saw in your eyes earlier. You were terrified. You looked at those journals like they were radioactive."
"They are."
"Tell me."
"Tristan, I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I need you to focus," I said, squeezing his hand. "I need you to focus on the house. On the renovation. On keeping her out. If I tell you everything now... you’ll lose your mind. And I need you sane."
He stared at me. He looked frustrated, but he nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. We play it your way. But when this is over... when the house is finished... I want to know everything. Every lie. Every secret."
"You will," I promised.
He sat back.
"Lorelei has called forty times," he said casually.
"I saw."
"She came to the hospital."
I stiffened. "She was here?"
"Yeah. About two hours ago. She tried to get into the room."
"What happened?"
"I met her in the hall," Tristan said. His face went cold. "She was screaming about how it looked. About the press. About how I was humiliating her by sitting vigil for my ex-wife."
"And?"
"And I told her to go home."
"Just like that?"
"No," he said. "I told her that if she ever brought a magazine into my house again to try and hurt you, I would end the engagement publicly and ruin her father’s reelection campaign."
My mouth fell open slightly. "You threatened the Senator?"
"I threatened the obstacle," he corrected. "She left."
He looked at me, a dark satisfaction in his eyes.
"She called you damaged goods," he said softly. "I didn't forget that."
"Tristan..."
"You’re not damaged, Mina," he said. He reached out and touched my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You’re reinforced. There’s a difference."
I leaned into his touch. I couldn't help it.
"I want to go home," I whispered.
"To the hotel?"
"No," I said. "To the estate."
He blinked. "Are you sure? It’s... messy. And Ida..."
"Ida is banned," I said. "And the house is the safest place for me right now. It has twenty men with sledgehammers and a new security team. A hotel is too public. Ida can get to me there."
Tristan nodded. "You’re right. The new security team arrived from London while you were sleeping. They’re ex-SAS. No one gets in without a retinal scan."
"Good."
"I’ll get the discharge papers," he said, standing up.
He paused.
"Mina?"
"Yeah?"
"When we get back," he said. "You take the Master Suite."
"What?"
"The guest wing... the tunnel entrance is there. It’s not safe. The Master Suite is stripped, but we can set up a bed. The walls are open. There are no secrets in there anymore."
"Tristan, I can't sleep in your room."
"I won't be there," he said quickly. "I’ll take the guest room. Or the couch. I don't care. But I want you in the safest room in the house. And right now, that’s the one we gutted."
I looked at him. He was offering me his sanctuary. He was giving up his ground.
"Okay," I said.
He smiled. It was a tired, small smile, but it reached his eyes.
"Okay."
He walked to the door to find the doctor.
I lay back against the pillows.
I was going back. I was going back to the house that tried to kill me. I was going to sleep in the room where my marriage died.
But this time, I wasn't the victim.
I touched my throat. It was still tender.
Ida had tried to take my breath away.
Tristan had given it back.
And now? Now I was going to use that breath to blow her house down.
One Hour Later
The drive back to the estate was silent. The rain had stopped, leaving the world slick and black.
We pulled up to the gate.
It was closed. Massive floodlights illuminated the entrance. Two men in black tactical gear stood guard. They stopped the car.
Tristan rolled down the window.
"Mr. Johnston," the guard said, shining a light into the car. He checked Tristan’s face, then mine. "Clear."
The gate swung open.
We drove up the hill.
The house was dark, except for the security lights.
Tristan helped me out of the car. I was shaky, my legs feeling like rubber. He wrapped an arm around my waist, taking my weight.
"I’ve got you," he murmured.
We walked up the steps.
Inside, the foyer was shadowed. The smell of sawdust was comforting now. It smelled like change.
"I’ll help you upstairs," he said.
We climbed the stairs slowly.
We reached the Master Suite.
It was exactly as we had left it. The walls were yellow drying in the darkness. The floor was subfloor.
But in the center of the room, someone had set up a simple mattress on a frame. There were clean sheets. A duvet. A lamp plugged into an extension cord.
It looked like a campsite in a ruin.
"It’s not much," Tristan said.
"It’s perfect," I said.
He walked me to the bed. I sat down. It was soft.
"I’ll be down the hall," he said, pointing toward the guest wing. "If you need anything... yell. I’m a light sleeper."
"Tristan."
He stopped.
"Thank you."
He looked at me. In the dim light of the single lamp, the yellow walls cast a golden glow on his skin. He looked like the boy I had loved.
"Goodnight, Mina," he whispered.