Chapter 28 Reputation Management
I sat in the cab of the rusted groundskeeper’s truck, the heater blasting against my freezing skin. My hands were sticky with drying blood—Ida’s from her nose, mine from where she had bitten my arm. My cheek throbbed with a dull, sickening pulse where she had punched me.
But on the passenger seat, wrapped in a dirty towel I had found under the dash, was the box.
1999.
Eleanor’s diary. The testimony of the dead.
I looked in the rearview mirror. My reflection was a horror show. My hair was matted, my lip split, my eye swelling into a purple slit. I looked like a woman who had just crawled out of a grave.
Which, in a way, I had.
I pulled up to the service entrance of the estate. I punched the code with shaking fingers. The gate slid open.
I drove up the back path, avoiding the main driveway where I knew the press was still swarming. The house loomed ahead, dark and scarred by the fire, but standing.
I parked the truck by the kitchen entrance.
I didn't move for a moment. I just sat there, listening to the engine tick as it cooled, clutching the steering wheel. I had survived. I had stared down the barrel of a gun and I was still breathing.
The kitchen door flew open.
Tristan ran out.
He must have been watching the cameras, the few that still worked on the backup loop. He was barefoot, wearing the same clothes from the night before.
He wrenched the truck door open.
"Mina!"
He reached for me, then froze.
The porch light hit my face. He saw the bruise. He saw the blood on my hands.
The color drained from his face so fast he looked like he might faint.
"Who did this?" he whispered. His voice was terrifyingly quiet.
I stepped out of the truck, my legs wobbling. I grabbed the box from the passenger seat.
"She did," I said.
Tristan caught me as I stumbled. His hands hovered over my arms, afraid to touch me, afraid to hurt me.
"Ida?" he asked.
"She was at the unit. She had a gun."
"A gun?" Tristan roared. He spun around, looking at the darkness of the woods as if he expected her to materialize. "She shot you?"
"She missed," I said, leaning against the truck. "She missed, and I hit her. I think I broke her nose."
Tristan looked back at me. His eyes were wide, wild. He looked at the blood on my hands.
"You fought her," he said.
"I survived her." I shoved the box into his chest. "Take this. It’s Eleanor’s diary. From 1999. It proves everything."
He took the box automatically, but his eyes didn't leave my face.
"We need to go to the hospital," he said. "Your eye... your arm..."
"No hospitals," I said. "If I go to the hospital, the press will find out. They’ll spin it. 'Unstable Ex-Wife in Bar Brawl.' I can't let them control the narrative, Tristan."
"Screw the narrative! You’re hurt!"
"I’m alive!" I shouted back, the adrenaline spiking again. "And I have the evidence! But right now, there are twenty news vans at the front gate calling me a whore and a home-wrecker. If I hide, they win. If I hide, Ida wins."
I pushed past him, walking into the kitchen. The warmth of the Aga stove hit me, a stark contrast to the cold metal of the storage unit.
Tristan followed me, placing the box on the island. He grabbed a clean dishtowel and wet it at the sink. He came over to me, gently dabbing at the cut on my lip.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
"I want a shower," I said, wincing as the cloth touched my skin. "I want a suit. And then... I want you to open the gates."
He stopped cleaning my face. He looked at me.
"Open the gates?"
"Let them in," I said. "The press. The paparazzi. All of them."
"Mina, look at you. You look like you went twelve rounds."
"Exactly," I said. I looked at my reflection in the dark window of the oven. I looked battered. Broken.
But my eyes? My eyes were cold steel.
"I’m not going out there to model, Tristan," I said. "I’m going out there to declare war."
One Hour Later
The foyer of the Johnston Estate was a cavern of shadows and dust.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase.
I had showered. The hot water had stung my cuts, but it had washed away the feeling of Ida’s hands on me.
I was wearing white.
A white pantsuit, tailored, sharp as a razor. I wore no jewelry. My hair was pulled back into a severe, tight bun.
I hadn't covered the bruises.
The purple swelling around my eye was vivid against my pale skin. The split in my lip was dark red. The bite mark on my forearm was covered by the sleeve, but the violence was written on my face.
Tristan stood at the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing a dark suit, his face grim.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Open the doors," I said.
He nodded to the new head of security, a massive man named Holt.
Holt opened the double doors.
Beyond the porch, the driveway was packed. Reporters, cameras, microphones. They had been camped out since the article dropped this morning. When the doors opened, a hush fell over them. Then, the shouting started.
"Ms. Hayes! Is it true?"
"Did you sleep with the crew?"
"Tristan! Do you have a comment on your ex-wife's behavior?"
I walked out onto the porch.
I stood at the top of the stone steps, looking down at them. The flashbulbs erupted, blinding white explosions that reminded me of the gun going off in the storage unit.
I didn't flinch.
I raised a hand.
The crowd quieted, curious. They saw the suit. They saw the bruises.
Tristan stepped out behind me, standing just to my right. A silent sentinel.
"My name is Minerva Hayes," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried. It was the voice I used to command construction sites. "I am the lead architect of this project. And I am the woman you have been writing fiction about all morning."
A reporter from The City Gossip pushed to the front.
"Ms. Hayes! The photos clearly show you getting intimate with your staff. How do you explain the breach of professional ethics?"
I looked at him. I held his gaze until he fidgeted.
"Intimate?" I repeated. "You saw a man putting a hand on my shoulder to steady me on a worksite. You saw me eating lunch with my team. If that is your definition of intimacy, your personal life must be very sad."
A ripple of laughter went through the press pool.
"But let’s talk about ethics," I continued, stepping forward. The light hit my face fully now. The bruise was undeniable.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cameras zoomed in.
"Ms. Hayes," a woman from CNN called out. "Your face. What happened?"
"This?" I pointed to my eye. "This is the price of renovation."
I looked directly into the camera lens. I imagined Ida watching from whatever hole she was hiding in.
"There are people who don't want this house to stand," I said. "There are people who are terrified of what I’m building here. They have used fire. They have used lies. And today... they used violence."
The crowd murmured. Pens scratched furiously on notepads.
"Who?" the CNN reporter asked. "Who attacked you?"
"A coward," I said. "A coward who hides in the shadows and pays tabloids to smear my name because she doesn't have the courage to face me in the light."
I paused. I let the silence stretch.
"You want a story?" I asked. "Here is the story. I am not a 'disgraced ex-wife.' I am a survivor. I survived a divorce that was built on lies. I survived an exile. And I will survive this."
I swept my gaze over the crowd.
"The crew you slandered this morning?" I said, my voice hardening. "They are good men. Fathers. Husbands. Professionals. They walked off the job today because they were being harassed by you. Because you printed lies without checking facts."
I pointed a finger at the City Gossip reporter.
"You have until 5:00 PM to retract that article," I said. "If you don't, I won't just sue you. I will buy your publication, fire your editorial staff, and turn your office into a public restroom."
Tristan stepped forward then. He moved into the light, standing shoulder to shoulder with me.
"And I will bankroll it," he said.
The press went wild. Tristan Johnston, backing his ex-wife. Threatening the press.
"Tristan! Does this mean you’re back together?"
"What about Lorelei Vance?"
Tristan looked at the cameras.
"Minerva Hayes is the only person I trust with this house," he said. "And anyone who touches her... anyone who prints lies about her... answers to me."
He looked at me. There was pride in his eyes.
I looked back at the crowd.
"The renovation continues," I said. "The house will stand. And so will I."
I turned on my heel.
"No further questions."
We walked back inside. The heavy doors slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the world.
Inside the foyer, my legs finally gave out.
I stumbled. Tristan caught me instantly, his arms wrapping around me, holding me up.
"You were..." He shook his head, breathless. "My god, Mina. You were terrifying."
"Did it work?" I asked, leaning against him.
"Look at your phone," he said. "The headlines are already changing. 'Minerva Hayes Attacked.' 'Architect Defends Crew.' 'The Johnston Mystery Deepens.'"
"Good," I whispered. "Now the spotlight is on the violence. If Ida tries anything else, everyone will be watching."
"You used your pain as a shield," Tristan said. He touched the bruise on my face gently. "Does it hurt?"
"Like hell."
"Come on," he said. "Let’s get you upstairs. You need ice. And we have some reading to do."
He led me toward the stairs.
We walked past the library. The door was still boarded up, but the smell of smoke was fading, replaced by the crisp scent of the autumn air we had let in.
We reached the Master Suite.
The yellow room.
It was filled with light now. The afternoon sun poured through the windows, turning the Morning Mist paint into a glowing, golden cocoon.
Tristan helped me sit on the mattress. He went to the bathroom and came back with a wet cloth filled with ice.
He sat next to me. He pressed the ice to my cheek.
"The box," I said.
"It’s right here."
He reached down and picked up the box I had brought from the storage unit. He placed it on the bed between us.
My hands were shaking as I opened the lid.
Inside lay the small, leather-bound book. Eleanor Johnston’s diary.
"Are you ready?" I asked him.
Tristan stared at the book. His mother’s diary. A voice from the grave.
He looked pale, sick. But his jaw was set.
"No," he said. "But read it anyway."
I opened the book. I found the page.
"January 1999," I read aloud. My voice trembled in the quiet room.
"I am so tired. The doctors say it’s the autoimmune disorder, but I don't feel sick in my bones. I feel... poisoned. My stomach burns after I eat. Especially the soup Ida brings me."
Tristan made a sound. A sharp intake of breath.
I continued.
"I saw her looking at Tristan today. He was playing in the yard. She wasn't looking at him like a sister. She was looking at him like a possession. Like a doll she didn't want to share. I tried to tell Charles, but he won't listen. He thinks she’s a saint for taking care of me."
I turned the page. The handwriting became shakier. Spider-scrawl.
"January 10th. I found the bottle. In her room. Under her mattress. 'Rat Poison - Arsenic Base.' I confronted her. She smiled. She just smiled and said, 'It’s for the vermin, Mother. You know how hard it is to get rid of pests.'"
I stopped reading. The silence in the room was deafening.
Tristan was crying. Silent tears that tracked through the stubble on his cheeks.
"She knew," he whispered. "Mom knew."
"She tried to warn your father," I said gently. "But Ida was too good at the game."
Tristan reached out. He touched the page, tracing his mother’s handwriting.
"I was twelve," he said. "I sat by her bed. Ida brought me juice. She rubbed my back while I watched my mother die."
He looked up at me. His eyes were shattered.
"I loved a monster," he said.
"You loved a mask," I corrected.
"What do we do?" he asked. "This... this is twenty years old. Is it enough? Is it proof?"
"It’s motive," I said. "And combined with the shrine... the tea from 2019... the fire... it’s a pattern. A pattern of a psychopath."
"We give it to the police," Tristan said. He stood up, grabbing the diary. "Right now. We end this."
"No," I said.
He stopped. "What? Mina, she tried to shoot you. She poisoned my mother. We can't wait."
"If we go to the police now, she’ll run," I said. "She has money in Switzerland. She has fake passports. Vane told us. If she smells the cops coming, she’ll disappear. And she’ll spend the rest of her life hunting us from the shadows."
"So what do we do?"
I stood up. I walked over to him. I took the diary from his hands and placed it back in the box.
"We stick to the plan," I said.
"The housewarming?"
"Yes."
"You want to invite her to a party?" he asked, incredulous. "After she shot at you?"
"I want to trap her," I said. "She’s desperate, Tristan. She’s making mistakes. She shot at me because I found her stash. She burned the house because she was panicked. If we invite her back... if we act like we don't have this..."
I tapped the box.
"She’ll come," I said. "She won't be able to resist. She needs to see you. She needs to see the house. She needs to see if she won."
"And then?"
"And then," I said, "we lock the doors. We bring Vane. We bring the police. And we play this diary over the sound system."
Tristan stared at me. He looked terrified. But he also looked awed.
"You’re vicious," he whispered.
"I’m the architect," I said. "I design the trap. You just have to bait it."
"How?"
"Call her," I said. "Tell her you’re worried about me. Tell her the article has me spiraling. Tell her... tell her you miss your sister."
Tristan looked sick at the thought.
"I can't lie to her. Not about that."
"You have to," I said. I took his face in my hands. "For Eleanor. For the baby. For us."
He closed his eyes. He leaned his forehead against mine.
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay. I’ll do it."