Chapter 42 Prove
"Prove it," I said. "Unlock the door."
He stared at me for a long second. Then, he hit the button.
I opened the door and scrambled out. The night air hit my flushed skin, cooling the sweat that still clung to my back.
I walked fast toward the house.
Tristan followed. I could hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel.
We walked into the foyer. The space was empty, the new abstract art piece looming on the wall like a bloodstain.
"Mina, wait."
I didn't wait. I headed for the stairs.
"Mina!"
He caught up to me at the landing. He grabbed my arm.
"Don't run from me," he said. "Not now. Come to my room. Stay with me tonight. Let me hold you. No sex. Just... just be with me."
I looked at his hand on my arm.
We weren't in public. But the rule had to apply here, too. Especially here.
"Let go," I said.
"No."
He pulled me closer. He was strong, so much stronger than me. He pulled me until my chest bumped against his. I could smell him—that same scent that had intoxicated me in the elevator.
"You love me," he whispered, searching my face. "I know you do. Stop fighting it."
He leaned in. He was going to kiss me. He thought the wall was down. He thought the elevator had shattered the glass.
His lips parted. His eyes drifted shut.
And in that second, I saw my future.
I saw myself softening. I saw myself forgiving him. I saw myself becoming the mistress of the Johnston Estate again, managing his moods, soothing his trauma, walking on eggshells to keep the peace. I saw myself losing the architect and becoming the wife.
And I saw the inevitable crash. The next time he got jealous. The next time he got scared.
I couldn't do it.
I placed my hands on his chest.
And I shoved.
It wasn't a playful push. It was a violent, desperate shove.
He stumbled back, surprised. He nearly lost his footing on the stairs. He grabbed the banister to steady himself.
He looked up at me, shock written all over his face.
"Mina?"
"No," I said. My voice was shaking, but it was loud. "No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to erase five years of pain with one hour of sex."
I took a step back, putting distance between us.
"We relapsed," I said. "That’s what this was. A relapse. We fell off the wagon. But we are not staying in the gutter, Tristan."
"The gutter?" He looked hurt. "Is that what I am to you?"
"Right now? Yes. You’re the drug I’m trying to quit."
I wrapped my leather jacket tighter around myself, shielding my body from his gaze.
"That elevator," I said, pointing a finger at him. "That was a moment of weakness. It will not happen again. Do you understand me?"
He straightened up. The shock was fading, replaced by a cold, hard anger.
"You can't just turn it off," he said. "You can't uncork the bottle and then try to shove it back in."
"Watch me."
"You’re lying to yourself!" he shouted. "You want me! You’re just too scared to admit it because it means you have to be vulnerable!"
"I am vulnerable!" I screamed back. "I am standing here, bleeding out, and you’re trying to tell me it’s love! Love doesn't hurt this much, Tristan! Love doesn't feel like a trap!"
The word hung in the air. Trap.
He flinched as if I had slapped him.
"I never wanted to trap you," he whispered.
"Then let me be free," I said. "Let me have my space. Let me have my body."
I took a deep breath, steadying myself.
"Starting now," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. "We are resetting. We are architect and client. Nothing more."
He stared at me. "You can't be serious."
"I am deadly serious."
He took a step toward me. Instinctively. He reached out a hand, a pleading gesture.
"Mina, please..."
I stepped back.
"Don't," I said sharp as a whip crack.
He froze. His hand hovered in the air between us.
I looked him dead in the eye.
"You don't get to touch me," I said. "Not anymore. Not unless I ask for it. And right now? I am not asking."
He looked at his hand. Then he looked at my face. He saw the steel in my eyes. He saw the walls going back up, higher and thicker than before.
He slowly lowered his hand.
"Fine," he said. His voice was hollow. "Fine. Reset."
"Goodnight, Tristan."
I turned and walked up the stairs.
I didn't run. I walked. I forced my legs to move steadily, even though they felt like jelly.
I reached the top of the stairs. I walked down the hall to the Master Suite.
I went inside. I closed the door.
I locked it.
Then I dragged the dresser in front of it.
Then the chair.
I built a barricade. Not against Ida. Not against the press.
Against him.
I went into the bathroom. I turned on the shower. I stripped off the green dress and threw it in the trash.
I stepped under the scalding water. I scrubbed my skin until it was red. I tried to wash away the scent of him, the feel of his hands, the memory of his lips on my neck.
I scrubbed until I cried.
I sank to the floor of the shower, pulling my knees to my chest.
I had set the limit. I had drawn the line.
But as the water beat down on me, I realized the terrifying truth.
I hadn't built the barricade to keep him out.
I had built it to keep myself in.
Because if he knocked on that door right now... if he whispered my name through the wood...
I wasn't sure I would have the strength to keep it locked.