Chapter 173 She Makes The Billionaire Stay
I watched his broad shoulders tense under his dark sweater. He was leaving. He was giving me the space I demanded. He was walking away from the empire, the city, and the woman he spent three years trying to manage.
"Wait."
He turned to face me. His gray eyes searched my face, scanning for a trap. He did not step toward me. He respected the line I drew.
"You are walking away," I said.
"I am doing what you asked," Tristan replied. His voice held a rough edge, thick with restrained emotion. "I am giving you the peace you earned."
"I did not earn peace by pushing you into an empty coastal house."
I walked across the carpet. I stopped a foot away from him.
"I love you, Mina," Tristan said.
He spoke the words without hesitation.
"You loved me three years ago," I reminded him. "Love did not stop you from leaving me in Port Sterling. Love did not stop the tabloids from turning my life into a spectacle."
Tristan nodded.
"Love was not my failure," Tristan said. "Arrogance was my failure. I wanted you because you were mine. I treated our marriage like a contract I could enforce. When the Whitmores threatened that contract, I thought I could manage the board, the press, and your life all at once. I thought I knew what was best for you."
He raised his hands, then let them fall to his sides.
"I thought you belonged to me," Tristan continued. He met my gaze. The raw honesty in his eyes made my chest ache. "I was wrong. You belong to no one but yourself. You survived the industrial district. You built Aegis from nothing. You protected our son. You defeated Benedict and Celeste."
He took a slow breath. The dark fabric of his sweater shifted over his healing ribs.
"I no longer want you to come back because you are my wife," Tristan stated. "I am not asking you to honor a piece of paper. I am standing here because I want to earn the right to stand next to you. I want to deserve you."
I stared at him. The anger I carried for three years dissolved.
I stepped forward. I closed the final gap between us.
I raised my right hand. I placed my palm flat against his chest.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. A shudder rolled through his large frame. He raised his own hand. His fingers hovered inches from my waist. He did not touch me. He waited for my permission.
"You took a bullet for Elias," I whispered. "You tore down your own legacy to clear my name. You knelt in the rain in front of the entire world."
"It was not enough," he said, his voice a ragged scrape.
"It is a start."
I slid my hand up his chest. I traced the strong line of his neck. I tangled my fingers in his dark hair.
He opened his eyes. The desperation in his gaze stole the air from my lungs.
"Mina," he breathed.
"Show me," I said.
He closed the distance. His lips found mine.
He wrapped his good arm around my waist, pulling me against his body.
He lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He carried me down the hallway, his lips never leaving mine. His breathing turned ragged. We reached the bedroom. He set me on the edge of the mattress.
The shadows of the evening stretched across the room. We unbuttoned shirts and discarded the heavy layers of our clothes. I traced the thick white bandages wrapped around his ribs. I felt the heat of his skin. He traced the lines of my face, memorizing the features he lost for three years.
I pulled him down onto the sheets. The world outside the window faded into dark silence.
Morning sunlight flooded the bedroom.
I opened my eyes. The apartment was quiet. Elias was still asleep in the nursery down the hall.
Tristan lay beside me. His chest rose and fell in a steady, calming rhythm. The harsh tension he carried in his jaw for years was gone from his sleeping face. He looked younger. He looked at peace.
I sat up. The air held a cool chill. I pulled a silk robe over my shoulders and tied the belt at my waist.
I walked out of the bedroom. My bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor. I moved into the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine. The rich scent of roasted beans filled the air.
I felt a vibrating energy in my veins. The war was over. The man I loved was back in my bed. My son was safe. The Johnston empire was under my control.
But my mind drifted to the rusted metal box Marcus found in the warehouse.
I poured a cup of black coffee. I carried it down the hall and entered my home office. The room felt cold. I sat at my desk and unlocked the bottom drawer of the steel filing cabinet.
I took out the yellowed letter my mother wrote thirty years ago. I had read the first line a few days ago and locked it away. I was terrified of the truth. I needed facts before I shattered my own history.
But I had no enemies left. I had the strength to face the ghosts of the past.
I set my coffee mug on a coaster. I unfolded the brittle paper. The ink faded near the edges, but the words remained legible.
Alexander, if you are reading this, it means Benedict has made his move, and you are dead. You must find our daughter before he does.
I took a deep breath. I read the next paragraph.
Benedict knows the truth about the Whitmore patents. He knows Thomas Whitmore stole the formulas from my lab. But that is not the secret Benedict will use to destroy the Johnston Group. He knows the truth about the bloodline.
My eyes scanned the elegant, cramped script. My heart hammered against my ribs, a loud drum in the quiet office.
Harriet Montgomery does not hate me because I was your business partner, my mother wrote. Harriet hates me because of the child. You must tell Minerva the truth. You must tell her before she tries to claim the Serrano Trust. If she takes the Chairman seat, Harriet will demand a genetic test.
I gripped the edges of the paper. The brittle edges threatened to tear under my fingers.
Alexander, you are not Minerva's father.
I stared at the words. The ink mocked me. The foundation of my inheritance, the claim I used to take over the Johnston Group, hinged on my blood tie to Alexander Johnston.
My mother kept writing.
I lied to you to protect her. I knew if the Whitmores realized she carried their blood, they would use her as a pawn in their corporate games. They would never let her live in peace.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I read the final sentence on the page.
Her father is Thomas Whitmore.