Chapter 5 Trapped By High Society Queens

Chapter 5 Snake in the Garden
The junior architects and engineers shuffled out quickly, sensing the radioactive levels of tension in the air. They clutched their tablets and coffee cups, eyes downcast, eager to escape the blast zone.

I remained seated at the head of the table, organizing my papers with deliberate, agonizing slowness. I could feel Tristan’s eyes on me. He was still sitting there, frozen, staring at the empty chair where Ida had been sitting before she stormed out five minutes ago.

"You should go," I said, not looking up. "Your sister is probably in the hallway hyperventilating. She hates losing control."

Tristan slowly turned his head to look at me. The fluorescent lights of the office hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows under his eyes. He looked wrecked.

"Is it true?" he asked. His voice was quiet, stripped of the arrogance he usually wore like armor. "About the dishes?"

I paused, my hand hovering over a blueprint of the orchestra pit.

"Does it matter, Tristan?"

"Yes," he said. He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the polished floor. He walked toward me, stopping at the edge of the table. "It matters because I thought you were in the South of France. I thought you were drinking champagne on a yacht with... him. With the man Ida said you left me for."

"That was the narrative, wasn't it?" I finally looked at him. "The greedy, cheating wife living the high life on her husband’s dime. It’s a clean story. It makes you the victim. It makes everyone pity you."

"I didn't want pity," he said sharply. "I wanted you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous.

I slammed my portfolio shut. "You have a funny way of showing it. You divorced me in three days. You burned my clothes."

"I was hurt!"

"You were gullible!" I snapped, standing up to meet him eye-to-eye. "You let your sister whisper poison in your ear because you were too cowardly to ask me the truth yourself. And now? Now you know she lied about the money. What else is she lying about, Tristan? How much rot is in that house of yours?"

He flinched. He looked down at his hands—hands that used to hold me, hands that had signed the papers that ruined my life.

"I’m going to find out," he whispered. "I have a private investigator running a full audit on Ida. If she stole from me... if she set you up..."

"If?" I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "You’re still saying 'if.' That’s why we’re done, Tristan. You need proof to believe in my innocence. I needed faith. We are not the same."

I picked up my bag and walked past him.

"Minerva," he said. He reached out, his fingers brushing my elbow.

I pulled away instantly, as if his touch burned. "Don't."

He dropped his hand. "I’m coming to the site tomorrow. To inspect the demolition."

"It’s a free country," I said, walking to the door. "Wear a helmet. Things have a tendency to fall apart around you."

I needed a moment.

I walked straight to the executive washroom down the hall. My hands were shaking again. I hated it—this physical betrayal of my composure. My mind was steel, but my body was still a traumatized animal waiting for the next blow.

I pushed into the restroom. It was sleek, smelling of eucalyptus and expensive soap.

And it was occupied.

Ida was standing in front of the mirror. She was reapplying her lipstick—a soft, innocent pink. Her hands were perfectly steady.

When she saw me in the reflection, she didn't jump. She didn't look scared. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes were flat, dead things, like a shark’s.

"You think you’re so clever," Ida said. Her voice was light, conversational, as if we were discussing the weather.

I walked to the sink next to her and turned on the tap. I needed to wash the feeling of Tristan’s proximity off my skin. "I don't think I’m clever, Ida. I think I’m competent. I know that’s a foreign concept to you."

She capped her lipstick with a sharp click. She turned to face me, leaning her hip against the marble counter.

"You really think showing him a few bank discrepancies is going to break us?" she asked. "We are blood, Minerva. We share a history you can't even imagine. He might be mad at me for a week. He might even scream. But he will always forgive me. Because I am the only one who has never left him."

I turned off the tap and reached for a paper towel. "You stole three million dollars from him, Ida. That’s an expensive forgiveness."

"I was protecting him!" Her voice pitched up, cracking the veneer of calm. "I was protecting him from a gold-digging whore who didn't deserve him!"

I stopped drying my hands. I turned slowly to face her.

Five years ago, this woman terrified me. She had seemed untouchable, the beloved sister, the gatekeeper. I had spent my entire marriage trying to please her, trying to shrink myself so she wouldn't feel threatened.

Now? Now I just saw a pathetic, small woman in a yellow dress.

"You’re in love with him," I said.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact that I hadn't let myself fully articulate until this moment.

Ida froze. Her face went slack, then twisted into something ugly and defensive.

"That’s disgusting," she spat. "He’s my brother."

"Half-brother," I corrected. "And the way you look at him... the way you cling to him... it’s not sisterly, Ida. It’s obsessive. You didn't frame me because you thought I was cheating. You framed me because I was sleeping in the bed you wanted."

Ida moved so fast I almost didn't react. She lunged, her hand raised to slap me.

I caught her wrist in mid-air.

I didn't just catch it; I squeezed. I had spent the last five years hauling drafting tables and climbing scaffolding. My grip was iron. Ida gasped, her eyes widening in shock.

"Don't," I whispered, leaning in close. "I am not the girl you bullied five years ago. If you touch me, I will break your wrist. And I will make it look like an accident."

I shoved her hand back. She stumbled, hitting her hip against the counter. She rubbed her wrist, staring at me with a mixture of fear and pure, unadulterated loathing.

"He will never choose you," she hissed. "He hates you. He thinks you’re tainted."

"He doesn't hate me," I said, picking up my bag. "He wants to consume me. There’s a difference. And you? You’re just the snake in the garden, Ida. And I brought a shovel."

I walked out.

My heart was pounding, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was adrenaline. It was the thrill of the hunt.

The lobby of the building was a cavern of glass and echoes. I walked toward the exit, needing fresh air, needing to escape the orbit of the Johnston siblings.

"Minerva!"

I groaned internally. Not again.

I kept walking, pushing through the revolving doors and out onto the sidewalk. The rain had stopped, leaving the city gray and dripping.

Tristan caught up to me on the sidewalk. He grabbed my arm, spinning me around.

"Stop walking away from me," he growled.

"Stop chasing me," I shot back, yanking my arm free. "People are staring, Tristan. It’s bad for your stock price."

Passersby were indeed glancing at us. The famous Tristan Johnston, arguing with a woman on the street? It was gossip gold.

He lowered his voice, stepping into my personal space. He smelled of rain and frustration. "I called your office."

"I assumed you would."

"I asked for your fiancé’s contact information. Your assistant said there is no Mr. Garner listed in your emergency contacts. She said your emergency contact is your lawyer."

I raised an eyebrow. "I keep my private life private. Unlike you, I don't parade my relationships in the tabloids."

"I looked him up," Tristan continued, ignoring me. His eyes were intense, searching mine for a flicker of deception. "Lonnie Garner. There’s almost nothing on him. No social media. No LinkedIn. Just a few mentions in architectural digests as your associate. Who is he, Minerva?"

"He’s none of your business."

"Is he real?"

The question was whispered, desperate.

I looked at him. He wanted me to say no. He wanted me to tell him that Lonnie was a shield, a prop, a lie. He wanted to know that I was still available, still his.

"He is very real," I lied smoothly. "And he treats me with respect. He listens to me. He doesn't let his sister run his life."

Tristan’s jaw tightened. "Does he touch you?"

"Tristan—"

"Does he?" He took a step closer, crowding me against the stone facade of the building. His voice dropped to a ragged rasp. "Does he know how you sound when you’re close to the edge? Does he know that you have a scar on your left hip from when you fell off your bike when you were twelve? Does he know you?"

"He knows the woman I am now," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. "You only know the girl you destroyed."

"Then let me know her," he pleaded. His hand came up, cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed my skin, rough and warm. "Let me know who you are now, Mina. Give me a chance."

For a second—one terrifying, weak second—I leaned into his touch. My body betrayed me. It remembered the safety of his hands. It remembered the nights we spent tangled together, whispering promises he eventually broke.

Then, I saw it.

Over his shoulder, across the street.

A black sedan was parked at the curb. The window was rolled down just an inch. And behind the glass, the lens of a long-range camera glinted.

Ida.

She wasn't hyperventilating in the hallway. She was watching. Or she had hired someone to watch.

If I gave in now, if I showed weakness, she would win. She would have the photo she needed to prove I was trying to seduce him back.

I pulled away from his hand as if he had slapped me.

"You had your chance," I said coldly. "Five years ago. You blew it."

I turned and hailed a taxi. It pulled up instantly, screeching to a halt on the wet asphalt.

"Minerva!" Tristan called out as I opened the door.

I looked back at him. He stood there in the gray light, looking like a man who had just lost everything all over again.

"Go home, Tristan," I said. "Check your sister’s bank statements. And leave me the hell alone."

I slammed the door.

"Drive," I told the cabbie. "Anywhere but here."

I slumped back against the cracked vinyl seat. My cheek still burned where he had touched me.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Lonnie.

"Hey," Lonnie’s voice was cheerful. "Did you slay the dragon?"

"The dragon is confusing," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "And the snake is active. Ida tried to slap me in the bathroom."

"She what?" Lonnie’s voice dropped an octave. "I’m coming over. I’ll bring the bat."

"No bat," I sighed. "But she’s scared, Lonnie. She’s making mistakes. She accused me of forging the bank records. She looked... unhinged."

"Unhinged is dangerous, Mina."

"I know." I watched the city blur past. "Tristan is investigating her. He’s looking into the money. But he’s also investigating you."

"Me?"

"He asked if you were real. He checked my emergency contacts. You need to be careful. If he finds out you have a boyfriend, or that you’re just my business partner, he’ll think I’m still in love with him."

"Aren't you?" Lonnie asked softly.

I closed my eyes. "That’s irrelevant."

"Mina..."

"I need to focus on the house," I said, changing the subject. "I need to go to the estate tomorrow. I need to tear that place apart. If Ida is the snake, that house is the nest. I’m going to find whatever she’s hiding."

"You’re going back to the mansion?"

"I have to. It’s the job."

"It’s not just the job," Lonnie said. "It’s the crime scene."

"Exactly."

I hung up.

The taxi turned a corner, and suddenly, the massive billboard in Times Square came into view. It was an advertisement for Veridian Designs. My face—my new face, the sharp, cold Mina—was plastered ten stories high.

I stared at her. She looked strong. She looked invincible.

I wished I felt like her.

Because underneath the silk and the anger, I was terrified. Not of Ida. Not of the rumors.

I was terrified of the way my heart had slammed against my ribs when Tristan touched my face. I was terrified that despite the betrayal, despite the bus station, despite the years of loneliness... part of me still wanted to be the one to fix him.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

I didn't go back to the hotel immediately. I had the taxi drop me off at a small, unassuming café in the village—the kind of place that smelled of roasted beans and wet dogs.

I sat in the corner, nursing a black coffee.

My phone buzzed. A text message.

Unknown number.

Keep your hands off him. This is your only warning.

I stared at the screen. No name, but I didn't need one. Ida.

I took a screenshot. Evidence.

Then, my phone buzzed again. Another message. This one from a contact saved as T. Johnston.

I’m at the site. The demo crew found something in the master bedroom wall. You need to see this.

My stomach dropped. The master bedroom. Our bedroom.

I typed back: What is it?

Three dots danced on the screen. Then, the reply came.

A box. With your name on it.

I stared at the phone. I hadn't left a box. I had left with nothing.

Ida.

She had planted something. Or... she had hidden something she stole from me.

I stood up, leaving cash on the table. The game was escalating. The snake wasn't just in the garden; she was in the walls.

I walked out into the gray afternoon, hailing another cab.

"Where to, lady?"

"The Johnston Estate," I said. "And step on it."

As the car sped off, I checked the first message again. This is your only warning.

I smiled, but it was a grim, humorless thing.

"Too late, Ida," I whispered to the glass. "I’m already inside."