Chapter 46 Regret
The morning light in the Paris hotel room was cruel. It sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, illuminating the aftermath of the night before with clinical precision.
I woke up alone in the massive bed.
The space beside me was empty, but the sheets were still warm.
I sat up, pulling the duvet to my chest. My body ached.
I hate you.
I had said it. I had screamed it.
And then I had let him consume me.
I looked around the room. My clothes were scattered on the floor near the fireplace. My robe was a crumpled heap.
And Tristan?
He was sitting in the armchair by the window, fully dressed.
He was wearing a fresh suit, no tie. He was staring out at the city, his hands clasped together, his face a mask of brooding intensity.
He sensed me moving. He turned.
His eyes met mine.
There was no triumph in them. No smug satisfaction. Just a heavy, dark weight.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was rough.
"I am."
"How do you feel?"
I swallowed. "Like I just ran a marathon. Barefoot. On broken glass."
He flinched. "Mina..."
"Don't," I said, holding up a hand. "Don't apologize."
"I'm not doing either," he said. He stood up and walked toward the bed. "I'm... processing."
"Processing what? That you won?"
"I didn't win," he said sharply. "We both lost control. That’s not a victory. That’s a collapse."
He stopped at the foot of the bed.
"But it was real," he added quietly. "You can't deny that."
"I don't deny it," I said. "I just..." I closed my eyes. "I feel sick."
"Sick?" He looked alarmed. "Physically?"
"Emotionally," I clarified. "I feel like I betrayed myself. I spent five years building a fortress, Tristan. And last night... I just opened the gates and let you sack the city."
"I didn't sack the city," he said. "I came home."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "You didn't come home. You invaded. Again."
I threw off the covers. I was naked, but I didn't care. I walked to my suitcase, grabbed a fresh set of clothes, and marched into the bathroom.
I locked the door.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
My hair was a mess. My lips were swollen. There was a bruise on my neck—a dark, purple mark where he had bitten me.
I touched it.
It hurt.
I showered. I dressed in black slacks and a turtleneck.
When I came out, Tristan was packing his bag.
"The plane is ready," he said without looking up. "We leave in an hour."
"Good."
We didn't speak on the way to the airport. We didn't speak on the plane.
Tristan sat on his side of the aisle, reading a file. I sat on mine, staring out the window at the clouds.
But I could feel him.
I could feel his eyes on me when I wasn't looking. I could feel the invisible tether that connected us.
He wasn't sorry. I knew that. He felt guilty for hurting me, yes. But he didn't regret what had happened. He had tasted me again. He had confirmed that the fire was still there.
And that made him dangerous.
Because a man who knows he can still burn you is a man who will keep lighting matches.
We landed in New York in the late afternoon.
The car was waiting.
"I'm going to my apartment," I said as the driver loaded our bags.
Tristan froze. "Your apartment? You're not coming to the estate?"
"No," I said. "I need space. I need... decontamination."
Hurt flashing in his eyes. "Am I toxic waste now?"
"Yes," I said bluntly. "You are. And I need to detox."
"The marble arrives tomorrow," he reminded me. "You need to be there to inspect it."
"I'll be there," I said. "During business hours. As your architect."
"Mina..."
"Goodbye, Tristan."
I watched him through the rear window as the taxi pulled away. He was standing on the tarmac, alone, watching me go.
He looked devastated.
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt a flicker of satisfaction.
Good. Let him hurt. Let him wonder. Let him realize that one night of hate sex doesn't buy him forgiveness.
It just buys him a ticket to the show.
My apartment in the city was small. It was everything the Johnston Estate wasn't.
I walked in. I dropped my bag.
I went to the fridge. Empty, except for a bottle of sparkling water and a jar of olives.
I sighed.
My phone buzzed.
Tristan: I’m sorry.
I deleted it.
It buzzed again.
Tristan: It won't happen again. Unless you want it to.
I deleted that one too.
Then, a knock on the door.
I stiffened. He followed me.
I marched to the door and ripped it open.
"Go away, Tris—"
It wasn't Tristan.
It was Lonnie.
He was holding a pizza box and a bottle of wine.
"I sensed a disturbance in the Force," he said. "And by the Force, I mean my gaydar pinged 'disaster' from across the bridge."
I let out a sob.
Lonnie dropped the pizza. He stepped forward and wrapped me in a hug.
"Oh, honey," he murmured, stroking my hair. "What did he do?"
"We slept together," I cried into his shoulder. "In Paris. In an elevator. Everywhere."
"Oh, dear," Lonnie said. "That is... thorough."
He walked me to the couch. He opened the wine. He poured me a glass.
"Tell Uncle Lonnie everything," he said.
So I did.
I told him about everything.
Lonnie listened, sipping his wine, his expression grave.
"Well," he said when I finished. "You relapsed. It happens. You’re human. And he is... unfortunately... extremely hot."
"It’s not just that he’s hot," I said, wiping my eyes. "It’s that he... he knows me. He knows exactly which buttons to push."
"Because he installed them, darling," Lonnie pointed out. "He built the machine."
He refilled my glass.
"So," he said. "What’s the plan? Do you quit? Do you run back to Milan?"
"I can't," I said. "The contract. The house. And... I want to finish it. I want to finish the renovation. I want to prove to myself that I can stand in that house and not crumble."
"Then you need a new strategy," Lonnie said. "You can't be his lover. You can't be his wife. You have to be his boss."
"I am his boss. Technically."
"No," Lonnie said. "You’re his equal. But right now? You’re acting like his victim. You’re letting him dictate the terms. He corners you, you react. He kisses you, you melt."
"I didn't melt," I argued. "I burned."
"Same difference. The point is, he’s leading the dance. You need to take the lead."
"How?"
"Cold shoulder," Lonnie said. "Ice queen. Professional detachment. You show up tomorrow. You inspect the marble. You treat him like a vendor. Like a subcontractor who messed up the drywall."
"He’s the owner."
"To you," Lonnie said, "he is a problem to be managed. Not a man to be loved."
I nodded slowly.
"Managing the problem," I repeated.
"Exactly."