Chapter 44 Wife
The Imperial Suite was bigger than my apartment in Milan.
It had a living room with a fireplace, a dining room, a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed, and a bathroom clad in pink marble.
The bellboy left our bags. The door clicked shut.
We were alone.
"I’ll take the couch," Tristan said immediately. He walked into the living room and threw his jacket on the velvet sofa. "You take the bed."
"Tristan, you’re six-foot-two. You won't fit on that couch."
"I’ve slept on worse," he said. "I slept on a hospital chair for three days when Mom was dying. I can handle a velvet sofa."
"We can ask for a rollaway bed."
"No time," he checked his watch. "We have twenty minutes to change and get to the distributor. I’ll use the guest bathroom in the hall. You take the master."
He grabbed his Dopp kit and walked out.
He was being perfect.
It was exactly what I wanted.
So why did I feel like screaming?
The meeting with the marble distributor went smoothly.
Tristan was in full CEO mode. Charming, ruthless, efficient. He negotiated a price for the Calacatta gold marble that made the distributor weep, but he got us the stone.
"We need it shipped by Friday," Tristan said, shaking the man’s hand.
"Impossible, Monsieur Johnston. The logistics..."
"I’ll send my own plane," Tristan said. "Friday."
The distributor blinked. "D'accord. Friday."
We walked out of the warehouse into the drizzle.
"You’re terrifying when you want to be," I said.
"I’m efficient," he corrected. "We got the stone."
"We did."
"Now what?" he asked. "Our flight back isn't until 10:00 PM. We have six hours."
I looked around the industrial district. "We could go back to the hotel. Order room service. Work."
"Or," Tristan said, looking at me. "We could go to dinner."
"Dinner?"
"A celebration," he said. "For the stone. For the house. Strictly professional."
I hesitated.
But I was hungry. And the thought of sitting in that hotel room, staring at the one bed, was worse.
"Fine," I said. "But somewhere loud. Somewhere public."
"I know a place," he said.
He took me to a bistro in Le Marais. It wasn't loud. It wasn't crowded.
"Tristan," I warned as we sat down at a corner table.
"It has the best coq au vin in the city," he said innocently. "And the tables are far apart. Plenty of privacy."
"That’s exactly what I didn't want."
"Relax, Mina. We’re just eating."
He ordered wine. A bottle of Bordeaux.
"Just one glass," I said.
"Just one."
We ate. We drank.
And we talked.
We talked about architecture. About art. About the way the light hit the Seine in the winter.
Tristan was charming. He was funny. He was the man I had fallen in love with before the world broke him.
By the second glass of wine, I felt my shoulders relaxing.
"You know," he said, swirling his glass. "I used to hate Paris."
"Why?"
"Because it’s a city of lovers," he said. "And for a long time, I didn't believe in love."
"And now?"
He looked at me. The candlelight reflected in his eyes, turning them into warm amber.
"Now," he said softly, "I think I just didn't know what love looked like."
"Tristan..."
"Love isn't soft, Mina," he said. "You were right. Soft things rot. Love is hard. It’s stone. It’s endurance. It’s watching the person you love walk away and still keeping a light on for them."
My heart squeezed.
"Don't," I whispered. "We’re resetting. Remember?"
"I remember," he said. "But resetting doesn't mean forgetting."
He reached across the table. He took my hand.
This time, I didn't flinch.
"I missed you," he said. "Not just your body. I missed this. Talking to you. Hearing your mind work."
"I missed you too," I admitted. The wine was making me loose. Honest.
"Then why are we fighting?" he asked. "Why are we building walls when we should be tearing them down?"
"Because I’m scared," I said. "I’m scared that if I let you in... you’ll consume me. And I’ve worked too hard to build myself back up to be consumed again."
"I won't consume you," he vowed. "I’ll amplify you. We’re better together, Mina. We’re a fortress."
He squeezed my hand.
"Come back to me," he whispered. "Fully. Not just as my architect. As my wife."
The word hung in the air. Wife.
It was a heavy word. A loaded word.
"I can't," I said. "Not yet."
"But someday?"
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had flown across an ocean to buy marble for my vision. The man who had hired a security team to protect me. The man who was looking at me like I was the only star in his sky.
"Maybe," I whispered.
He smiled.
It was a dazzling, hopeful smile.
"I can wait for maybe," he said.
He signaled the waiter. "L'addition, s'il vous plaît."
We walked out of the bistro into the Paris night. The rain had stopped. The air was crisp.
We walked along the Seine. Tristan kept his hand on the small of my back. It was possessive, yes. But it was also... steadying.
We got back to the hotel.
We went up to the suite.
The room was warm. The fire had been lit by the maid service. The bed was turned down.
It looked inviting.
"I should pack," I said, breaking the silence. "The flight..."
"We have two hours," Tristan said.
He took off his jacket. He loosened his tie.
He looked at me.
The professional mask was gone. The lover was back.
"Mina," he said.
"Tristan, no."
"Why not?"
"Because we’re resetting."
"We reset," he said, walking toward me. "And now... we’re moving forward."
He stopped in front of me. He didn't touch me. He just looked at me.
"I want you," he said. "I want to make love to you in a bed. Not in an elevator. Not in a rush. I want to take my time. I want to worship you."
My breath caught.
"Tristan..."
"Tell me to stop," he said. "Tell me you don't want it. And I’ll walk away. I’ll sleep on the couch. I swear."
I looked at him.
I could tell him to stop. I could hold the line.
But the line was blurring. The wine, the city, the man... it was a perfect storm.
And I was tired of fighting the weather.
"Don't stop," I whispered.
He didn't need to be told twice.
He kissed me.