Chapter 48 Safe
"I want a chance," he pleaded. "Just one. To show you."
"Show me what?"
"That I can be the man you need. That I can be... safe."
The word hung between us, soft and fragile. I looked at him and for a heartbeat, the ice in my chest groaned, ready to crack.
Then, my phone buzzed on the table.
Lorelei Vance: Engagement Party Invite.
I frowned, my fingers cold as I swiped the screen. It was a mass email, a formal digital card framed in gold filigree.
Agatha Johnston and Senator Vance cordially invite you to celebrate the engagement of Tristan Johnston and Lorelei Vance. Saturday night. At the Johnston Estate.
I stared at the screen until the white background burned into my retinas. Then I turned the phone around and slid it across the blueprints to him.
"Is this your way of showing me you’ve changed?"
Tristan looked at the invitation. The color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, translucent white. "I didn't know about this," he choked out. "I swear."
"It’s at your house, Tristan. Hosted by your aunt."
"Agatha didn't tell me! She must have planned it while I was..." He gestured vaguely at the windows. "While I was distracted with the marble."
"Distracted," I repeated, the word flat. "Right. Well, congratulations on your engagement. Again."
I began rolling up the blueprints, the paper crinkling harshly in the quiet room.
"Mina, wait! I’m not engaged! I’m not marrying her!"
"Tell that to the Senator," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. The leather strap dug into my skin. "Tell that to Agatha. Because clearly, they didn't get the memo."
"I’ll cancel it," he said frantically, following me toward the door. "I’ll call Agatha right now. I’ll shut it down."
"Don't bother."
"Why?"
"Because the invites are out," I said, turning at the threshold. "The press has them. If you cancel now, it’s a public execution. It’s a humiliation for Lorelei. For the Senator. You'll lose everything."
"I don't care!"
"You should," I said, my voice hardening. "Because they’re your only allies. And right now? You’re running out of friends."
I walked to the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To lunch," I said. "With Lonnie. And then... I’m going shopping."
"Shopping?"
"For a dress," I said. I turned back and gave him a smile. "If there’s going to be an engagement party in my construction zone, I might as well look good for it."
"You’re coming?"
"Of course I’m coming. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
I walked out, the air in the hallway feeling thinner. I didn't go to lunch with Lonnie. I sat in my car, the interior smelling of stale coffee and leather, and I screamed until my throat was raw. Then I dialed his number.
"You were right," I said when he picked up.
"I usually am," Lonnie’s voice was smooth as silk. "About what specifically?"
"The engagement party. Agatha just sent the invites."
"Oh, hell," Lonnie breathed, the sound of a lighter clicking in the background. "She’s playing hardball."
"She thinks she can force his hand," I said, watching a hawk circle in the gray sky above the estate. "She thinks if she announces it publicly, he’ll be too afraid of the scandal to back out."
"And will he?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "He says he won't. But Tristan hates looking weak."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I’m going to go. And I’m going to watch."
"Watch what?"
"Watch him choose," I said, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. "This is the final test, Lonnie. If he stands up to Agatha... to the Senator... then maybe the man I saw in Paris is real. If he doesn't?"
"Then you pack your bags," Lonnie finished for me.
"And I go back to Milan. For good."
"That’s high stakes, darling."
"It’s the only way."
"Okay," Lonnie said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr. "If you’re going into the lion’s den, you need armor. Meet me at the studio in twenty minutes. I have something in red."
"Red?"
"Blood red," Lonnie said. "If there’s going to be a slaughter, you might as well dress for the occasion."
The rest of the week was a blur of sawdust and suffocating tension. Tristan tried to talk to me a dozen times, but I stayed behind the plastic sheeting and the roar of the equipment.
On Wednesday, Lorelei appeared like a ghost in a designer suit. She smelled of expensive lilies and entitlement. She walked through the dust in her stilettos as if she were already the lady of the manor, pointing a manicured finger at where the floral arrangements should go.
She found me in the library, where the scent of cut wood was strongest.
"Minerva!" she chirped, her voice hitting a pitch that set my teeth on edge. "I’m so glad you’re still here. We need your help with the lighting for the dance floor."
"I’m an architect, Lorelei," I said, my eyes fixed on my tablet. "Not a party planner."
"Oh, come on. Be a sport. Tristan and I are so happy."
I looked at her. Her eyes were bright, too bright. She was either delusional or the greatest actress I had ever met.
"Does Tristan know he’s happy?" I asked.
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a hairline fracture in the porcelain, then snapped back.
"He’s just stressed," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "The trial, the house... but once this is official... once we’re settled... he’ll relax. I’m good for him, Minerva. I’m safe."
Safe.
The word felt like a heavy stone in my stomach. Tristan had used it. Lorelei was easy. She was the path of least resistance.
"Safe is boring," I said.
"Safe is lasting," she countered, her voice sharpening. "You were exciting, Minerva. You were a firework. But fireworks burn out. And they leave a mess."