Chapter 36 Provocation
The house was quiet, but it wasn't the silence of peace. It was the silence of a held breath.
It was Tuesday. One day after the confrontation in the kitchen.
Tristan had sent Lonnie an apology gift. A case of Macallan 25 and a handwritten note that simply said: I’m trying.
Lonnie had texted me a picture of it with the caption: He’s either evolved or he’s bribing me. Either way, I’m drinking it.
I was in the Master Suite, getting ready for a site inspection. The new crew was starting on the west wing today, and I needed to be there to supervise the demolition of the old solarium.
I opened my closet.
My work clothes were hanging on the left. Sensible. Protective.
But on the right, hanging in a garment bag Lonnie had "accidentally" left behind, was something else.
A dress.
It was silk. Emerald green. A slip dress that looked more like lingerie than outerwear. It was backless, with thin spaghetti straps and a hem that hit mid-thigh.
I touched the fabric. It was cool, slippery.
He’s trying to keep you, Tristan had said. I’m terrified you’ll leave.
His jealousy was a cage. A gilded, expensive cage, but a cage nonetheless. He was trying to control the narrative, to keep me safe, to keep me his.
But I wasn't a possession. I was the architect.
I took the dress out of the bag.
"Let’s see how much self-control you really have, Tristan," I whispered.
I put it on.
It fit like a second skin. It skimmed my curves, highlighting everything without revealing anything explicit. It was elegant. It was provocative. It was a weapon.
I put on a pair of heavy combat boots to offset the delicacy of the silk. I threw a leather jacket over my shoulders but didn't put my arms in the sleeves.
I walked downstairs.
Tristan was in the foyer, talking to Silas. He was wearing a suit, looking impeccable and authoritative.
He turned as I descended the stairs.
His words died in his throat.
He stared. His eyes traveled from the boots up to the hem of the dress, over the curve of my hips, to the exposed skin of my neck.
Silas coughed, looking away politely.
"Morning," I said, breezing past them. "Ready for the inspection?"
Tristan didn't answer. He just watched me walk to the door.
"Ms. Hayes," Silas said, finding his voice. "We’re ready in the west wing."
"Great."
I walked out onto the porch. The morning air was cool, raising goosebumps on my arms. I didn't put the jacket on.
Tristan followed me.
"Minerva," he said. His voice was low, tight.
I stopped. I turned.
"Yes?"
"What are you wearing?"
"Clothes," I said innocently. "Do you like it?"
"I like it," he growled, stepping closer. "In the bedroom. With the door locked. Not on a construction site."
"Why not?" I asked. "It’s comfortable. It allows for a full range of motion."
"It allows for a full view of your legs," he snapped. "Change."
I raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Change," he repeated. "You can't wear that out there. It’s... it’s distracting. And it’s dangerous. There are nails. Splinters."
"I’m wearing boots," I pointed out. "And I have a hard hat in the car."
"Mina." He grabbed my arm. His grip was firm, but not painful. "Don't do this."
"Do what?" I asked, stepping into his space. "Wear what I want? Be who I am? Or are you worried that if another man sees my knees, you’ll lose your mind?"
His eyes flashed. "I’m worried that if another man looks at you the way I’m looking at you right now, I’ll have to fire him. Or hit him."
"That sounds like a 'you' problem, Tristan."
I pulled my arm free.
"I’m going to work," I said. "If you want to fire the crew because you can't control your temper, that’s on you. But I am not changing."
I turned and walked toward the west wing.
I could feel his eyes on my back. Burning. Possessive.
He didn't stop me.
But he followed.
The west wing was a hive of activity. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight piercing the half-demolished roof. The sound of sledgehammers was a rhythmic, violent heartbeat.
I walked in.
The crew stopped.
Twenty men paused mid-swing. They looked at me. At the dress. At the boots.
Silence.
Then, a wolf whistle.
It came from a young guy on a scaffold. A new hire. He grinned, leaning over the rail.
"Looking good, Boss!" he called out.
I smiled. "Eyes on the wall, Miller. Unless you want that hammer to land on your foot."
The crew laughed. The tension broke. They went back to work. They were professionals. They appreciated the view, but they respected the authority.
Except for Tristan.