Chapter 47 Ignore
The marble arrived on Friday morning, a cold, heavy intrusion that smelled of wet earth and industrial foam. The flatbed trucks groaned under the weight of the Calacatta gold, giant slabs that shimmered with veins of honeyed amber when the sunlight hit them. It was the material manifestation of our trip to Paris.
It was also the only thing I was willing to talk to Tristan about.
Since my return, I had become a professional ice sculpture. My skin felt tight, my movements precise and mechanical. I arrived at the site at 7:00 AM sharp, the air still biting with a leftover dew. I wore stiff denim and a white button-down that felt like a starch-stiffened shroud, my hard hat pulled low. No dresses to catch the wind, no makeup to smudge. No cracks in the armor.
Tristan was already there, a dark silhouette against the pale dust of the construction site. He was huddled with Silas by the trucks, the low rumble of his voice vibrating in the morning air. He looked up as I approached, his eyes searching mine with a look that was hopeful, tentative, and entirely too loud.
"Morning," he said. The word hung there, heavy with the weight of everything we weren't saying.
"Morning," I replied. I didn’t break my stride; the gravel crunched rhythmically under my boots. "Silas, is the hoist ready?"
Silas looked between us, his eyes darting nervously like a man caught in a crossfire. "Yes, ma'am. Crane is in position."
"Good. Let’s get the first slab into the foyer. Carefully. If it cracks, I'm taking it out of your paycheck."
I walked past Tristan as if he were a piece of scaffolding. I felt his gaze like a physical heat on my back, the palpable weight of his disappointment dragging behind me. But I kept walking, the smell of diesel and cut stone filling my lungs.
For the next three days, I was a machine.
I managed the crew over the screech of circular saws and the thud of hammers. I approved the millwork for the library, running my fingers over the raw grain of the oak to check for burrs. I finalized the paint schedule, inhaling the chemical tang of primer and fresh plaster.
And I ignored Tristan.
I wasn't a child; I didn't ignore him completely—that would be unprofessional. I answered his questions about the budget with clipped, numerical efficiency. I updated him on the timeline. But I gave him nothing else. When he tried to invoke Paris, the scent of lavender and old rain, I pivoted to the cold logistics of plumbing fixtures. When he tried to apologize, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that used to make my pulse jump, I walked away to check a measurement.
The peace offerings were dealt with like hazardous waste. The flowers, sweet and cloying, went to the break room. The coffee, bitter and hot, went to Silas. The book he sent went back to his office with a yellow sticky note that felt like a slap: Not expensable.
It was working. The distance was a growing chasm, the intimacy of the elevator fading into a memory of static, replaced by a wall of cold, white marble.
But it was exhausting. Every time I turned my back on him, it felt like a surgical thread ripping through my skin. Every time I caught the bruised look in his eyes, a phantom ache bloomed in my chest.
I didn't soften. If I did, he would take it as an invitation to consume me again. And I wasn't ready to disappear into him.
By Monday morning, Tristan looked like a ghost haunting his own house. He was pale, his jawline sharper, the skin under his eyes smudged with charcoal shadows. He hadn't been sleeping; I knew because I had watched his office light burn a hole through the darkness from my bedroom window in the Master Suite—where I slept behind a barricaded door, the silence of the room ringing in my ears.
I was in the dining room, the blueprints spread across a makeshift table, when he walked in. The click of the door closing behind him sounded like a gunshot.
"We need to talk," he said. His voice was raw, like he’d been swallowing glass.
I didn't look up. The blueprint was a sea of blue and white lines. "About the sconces? I think bronze is better than nickel."
"Not about the sconces, Minerva. About us."
"There is no us," I said, the red ink of my pen bleeding into the paper as I marked a change. "There is an architect and a client."
"Stop it," he snapped. He moved closer, the scent of his cologne invading my space. "Stop treating me like a stranger."
"I’m treating you like a professional."
"You’re freezing me out!" his voice rose, echoing off the bare studs of the walls. "You’re punishing me for loving you!"
I looked up then, my neck stiff. "I’m not punishing you. I’m protecting myself. There’s a difference."
"Protecting yourself from what? From happiness?"
"From you," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "From your volatility. From the possessiveness that smells like a cage. From the fact that you think love is a deed of ownership."
He flinched as if I’d struck him. He walked to the table, his hands trembling as he pressed them onto the blueprints, his knuckles white.
"I’m trying to change," he whispered, his eyes searching mine. "I really am. I haven't fired anyone in a week. I haven't yelled. I haven't... I haven't touched you."
"Congratulations," I said, the sarcasm tasting like copper. "You’re behaving like a normal human being. Do you want a gold star?"