Chapter 3 His Silence Broke My Heart

Chapter 3 Broken
Walking away from Tristan Johnston was the hardest thing I had ever done. The first time, five years ago, I had done it with a suitcase full of nothing and a heart that had been put through a meat grinder. I had stumbled out into the rain, blinded by tears, praying a car would hit me just so the pain would stop.

This time, I walked away in red silk and six-inch heels.

I didn't run. Predators love it when you run; it triggers their chase instinct. And make no mistake, Tristan was a predator. He was a wolf in a bespoke tuxedo, and I had just walked into his den and slapped him across the muzzle.

"Breathe," Lonnie murmured against my ear. His arm was a rigid bar of support beneath my hand. "You’re gripping me like you’re trying to snap my radius."

I forced my fingers to relax. "Is he following us?"

Lonnie didn't turn around. He guided us toward a waiter holding a tray of hors d'oeuvres, casual as a Sunday morning. "He’s staring. He looks like someone just told him the stock market crashed and his dog died on the same day. But he hasn't moved. Ida is... frantically whispering something to him. Probably trying to convince him you're a hallucination."

"Good," I said, though my voice sounded brittle. "Let her spin her webs."

We reached the edge of the ballroom, near the towering glass doors that led to the terrace. The air here was slightly cooler, less suffocating than the center of the room where the body heat of three hundred socialites created a humid, perfumed smog.

I took a sip of my martini. The vodka was icy, a sharp chemical burn that helped clear the fog in my head. My hands were shaking. Just a tremor, barely visible, but I felt it deep in my marrow. Seeing him hadn't just opened old wounds; it had ripped out the stitches.

He looked good. That was the unfair, bitter truth of it. Grief hadn't withered him; it had hardened him. He was carved from granite and regret, and God help me, the moment his eyes had locked onto mine, that old, treacherous spark had flared in my belly. The one that said, Him. Home.

I crushed that spark with a mental boot heel. He wasn't home. He was the arsonist who burned the house down.

"Oh, look," Lonnie said, his voice dripping with faux delight. "The vultures are circling."

I followed his gaze. A group of women stood near the chocolate fountain. I recognized them instantly. The Ladies of the Committee. Five years ago, they had been my friends. Or so I thought. They had drunk my wine, eaten at my table, and then, when the accusations started, they had stopped returning my calls. They had fueled the rumors, whispering about my infidelity with gleeful malice.

Leading them was Mrs. Vanderwall, a woman whose facelift was so tight she looked permanently surprised.

"Ignore them," I said, turning away.

"Too late," Lonnie whispered. "Here comes the alpha."

Mrs. Vanderwall intercepted us. She moved with the silent, gliding speed of a shark sensing blood in the water. She blocked our path, holding a glass of champagne that cost more than my father’s car.

"Minerva?" she said. Her voice was high, incredulous. She looked me up and down, searching for a flaw, a loose thread, a sign of poverty. She found nothing but Milanese silk and diamonds. "We heard a rumor you were back. I didn't believe it. You look... different."

"Mrs. Vanderwall," I said. I didn't smile. I didn't offer my hand. I stood perfectly still, letting my silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. "You look exactly the same."

It wasn't a compliment. She blinked, her smile faltering.

"Well," she let out a breathy, nervous laugh. "We were all so shocked when you left. It was such a scandal. And now, to show up here? At Tristan’s event? It’s very... brave of you."

"I’m not here for Tristan," I said coolly. "I’m here for the architecture."

"Architecture?" She frowned. "Oh, yes. I heard you were doing... drawings now? How quaint. It must be nice to have a hobby to keep you busy after... everything."

Lonnie stepped forward, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Actually, Beatrice—it is Beatrice, isn't it? Or did you change it to something less dreary?—Mina isn't here for a hobby. She’s the lead architect for the new Opera House project. You know, the one your husband is desperately trying to invest in?"

Mrs. Vanderwall’s face went slack. "The... the Veridian architect? That’s you?"

"That’s me," I said. I stepped closer to her, invading her personal space just enough to make her flinch. "And if you’ll excuse us, I have actual work to do. Enjoy the shrimp. I hear it’s mediocre."

We walked past her. I didn't look back, but I felt the heat of her glare.

"That felt good," Lonnie whispered.

"It felt like nothing," I lied. It felt exhausting. Every interaction was a battle, every conversation a minefield. I was tired of fighting. I wanted to go back to my hotel, take off this armor, and scream into a pillow.

"I need air," I said abruptly. "Real air."

"Terrace?" Lonnie asked.

"No. Too many people. I’m going to the library."

"The library? Is that safe?"

"It’s usually empty during parties."

"I’ll come with you."

"No," I put a hand on his chest. "Stay here. I just need five minutes of silence to put my face back on."

Lonnie hesitated, scanning the room. "Five minutes. If you’re not back, I’m sending a search party."

"Deal."

I slipped away from him, moving toward the side corridor that led to the east wing of the estate. As soon as I stepped out of the ballroom, the noise dropped away, muffled by heavy oak doors.

The hallway was dimly lit, lined with portraits of dead Johnston ancestors who all shared Tristan’s brooding jawline. I walked past them, my heels clicking on the parquet floor. The house smelled the same—lemon polish and old wood. It was a smell that used to make me feel safe. Now, it smelled like a trap.

I reached the library and slipped inside, closing the heavy door behind me.

The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Dust motes danced in the silver beams. I leaned back against the door, closing my eyes, exhaling a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I stepped off the plane.

You’re okay, I told myself. You faced him. You didn't cry. You won.

"You cut your hair."

The voice came from the shadows.

My eyes snapped open. I pushed off the door, my heart slamming into my throat.

Tristan was sitting in the high-backed leather wingchair by the unlit fireplace. He held a glass of dark liquid in his hand. He was mostly in shadow, but I could see the glint of his eyes. Watching me.

"Tristan," I breathed. My composure fractured. "I thought you were in the ballroom."

"It’s my house, Minerva," he said. His voice was low, rough, like gravel tumbling in a mixer. "I can be wherever I want."

He stood up. The movement was slow, deliberate. He unfolded his large frame from the chair, looking bigger than I remembered. The room suddenly felt very small.

"You followed me," I accused, trying to keep my voice steady.

"I saw you leave. I took the service corridor. I knew you’d come here." He took a step toward me. "You always came here when you were overwhelmed. You used to hide in that corner with a book and pretend you weren't crying."

The memory stung. He remembered. Why did he have to remember the small things? It would be easier if he had forgotten me completely.

"I’m not hiding," I said, lifting my chin. "And I’m not crying. I was looking for a quiet place to make a call."

"To the fiancé?" He spat the word.

"Yes."

"You’re lying."

He stepped into the moonlight. His face was ravaged by emotions I couldn't parse. He looked at me like he was starving and I was a feast he wasn't allowed to touch.

"Why did you come back?" he asked. He stopped three feet away from me. Close enough to smell the scotch on his breath, mixed with that woodsy cologne that used to cling to my pillowcases.

"I told you. Business."

"Bullshit," he growled. He slammed his glass down on a side table. The sound made me jump. "You don't come back after five years of silence for a contract. You disappeared, Minerva. You vanished off the face of the earth. Do you know what that did to me?"

"What it did to you?"

My temper snapped. The ice in my veins boiled over.

"Do not talk to me about your pain, Tristan," I hissed, taking a step toward him. "You threw me out. You stood in that penthouse and watched your sister hand me a pen, and you didn't even look at me. You erased me."

"Because you betrayed me!" he shouted back. His voice cracked, raw and agonizing. "I loved you! I gave you everything, and you slept with him in our bed!"

"I never touched him!" I screamed.

The words echoed in the high ceiling of the library.

We stood there, chests heaving, the silence between us vibrating with five years of unsaid things.

Tristan stared at me. His eyes searched my face, frantic, looking for the lie. He wanted to find the lie so he could hate me again. It was easier to hate me than to question his own reality.

"I saw the photos," he whispered. The anger was draining out of him, replaced by a desperate, wounded confusion. "The messages. Ida showed me..."

"Ida showed you," I repeated, my voice dropping to a cold, flat tone. "And that was enough, wasn't it? Ida showed you a picture, and five years of marriage meant nothing. My word meant nothing."

I laughed bitterly. "That’s the real tragedy, Tristan. Not that you thought I cheated. But that it was so easy for you to believe I was garbage."

He flinched as if I’d slapped him. He looked down at his hands, then back at me. He looked lost. For a second, I saw the man I had married—the gentle, protective man who used to hold me when I had nightmares.

But that man was dead.

"I checked the accounts," he said softly.

My breath hitched. "What?"

"Tonight. After you walked away." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect styling. "You said you never got the money. I called my private banker from the gala floor. I had him wake up the auditors."

He looked at me, and his eyes were haunted.

"The money went to an account in the Caymans," he said. "The account name was Minerva Hayes. But the withdrawal signatures... they didn't match yours."

The room went still.

"I told you," I whispered.

"Ida had power of attorney over that trust," he murmured, more to himself than to me. He was putting the pieces together, but the picture was too ugly for him to accept. "She said she was handling it for you. She said you asked for privacy."

"She lied, Tristan. She’s been lying since the day you introduced us."

He shook his head, a violent, jerky motion. "No. She’s my sister. She’s the only one who stayed."

"She’s the only one who stayed because she chased everyone else away!"

He closed the distance between us in two long strides. Before I could retreat, he trapped me. He placed his hands on the doorframe on either side of my head, caging me in. He didn't touch me, but his body was a wall of heat pressing against mine.

"Tell me the truth," he demanded. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in my chest. He lowered his head until his nose brushed against mine. "Look me in the eye and tell me. Did you love him? Was he better than me?"

"There was no him!" I cried, frustration tearing at my throat. "There was only you! There has only ever been you, you idiot!"

The confession hung in the air, heavy and exposing.

Tristan froze. His eyes searched mine, the gold flecks in his irises burning. He was breathing hard, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes.

"You still love me," he whispered. It wasn't a question. It was a discovery. A weapon he had just found.

I realized my mistake instantly. I had shown him a crack in the armor.

I shoved his chest.

"I didn't say that," I snarled, pushing him back. He stumbled slightly, surprised by my strength. "I said there was no other man. I didn't say I still loved you. I hate you, Tristan. I hate you for what you did. I hate you for being so weak that you let your sister dismantle our life."

I grabbed the door handle, desperate to escape. The air in the library was too thin, too charged. If I stayed here, if I let him look at me like that for one more second, I would do something stupid. Like cry. Or kiss him.

"Minerva," he reached for me.

"Don't," I warned, turning the handle. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway light. I turned back to look at him one last time. He stood in the shadows, a king in a ruined castle, looking at me with a devastation that almost made me stay.

"Stay away from me, Tristan," I said. "I’m here to build a theater, not to fix you. You’re broken, and I don't have the parts anymore."

I slammed the door.

I walked down the hallway, my heels echoing like gunshots. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would crack a rib. My hands were shaking uncontrollably now.

I needed to find Lonnie. I needed to leave.

But as I walked, I touched my lips. They were tingling, ghost-imprinted with the kiss that hadn't happened.