Chapter 86 Deal
"I love you," I repeated, a small smile breaking through my tears. "You're infuriating, you're entirely too controlling, and you have terrible taste in security chiefs. But I love you."
He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He reached up, his hand trembling, and pulled my face down to his.
He kissed me.
It wasn't the desperate, violent kiss of the shower. It wasn't the gentle, terrified kiss of the bedroom.
It was a kiss of absolute, profound relief. It tasted of antiseptic and saline, but underneath it all, it tasted like home.
He pulled back, his eyes searching mine, shining with a light I hadn't seen in years.
"I'm going to hold you to that," he whispered, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped my eye. "When I get out of this bed, I'm going to hold you to that, Minerva."
"I'm not going anywhere," I promised.
The next week was a grueling test of endurance.
Tristan’s recovery was slow and painful. The physical therapy for his shattered collarbone was agonizing. He hated the weakness. He hated the hospital bed. He hated the food.
But he never complained. Not once.
He channeled all his frustration, all his pain, into getting stronger.
Vane visited daily, bringing updates on the legal proceedings. The Senator, Lorelei’s father, had quietly dropped the ridiculous lawsuit against me the moment the news of the Opera House broke. Ida’s trial date was set, though her lawyers were aggressively pushing an insanity plea.
"Let them," Tristan told Vane during one of these visits. We were in a private room on the recovery floor now. "She is insane. But make sure the judge understands that her insanity is lethal. She needs to be locked in a box."
"The DA is pushing for a life commitment to the state psychiatric hospital," Vane assured him. "She won't see daylight again."
Tristan nodded, his expression hard. He had finally cut the cord. The toxic loyalty that Ida had bred into him was dead, killed by the bullet she had fired at me.
On the tenth day, Dr. Aris walked into the room holding a clipboard.
"Well, Mr. Johnston," the surgeon said, looking at the charts. "Your vitals are strong. The graft is healing beautifully. You're terrorizing the physical therapy staff with your stubbornness."
"They talk too much," Tristan grumbled from the bed, his right arm secured in a heavy sling.
Dr. Aris chuckled. "I think you're ready to go home. Assuming you have someone to assist you with your daily activities? You're not going to be able to use that arm for at least another month."
Tristan looked at me.
"She's coming with me," he said.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.
"Actually," I said, stepping forward. "We're not going to the estate."
Tristan frowned, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
"The estate is a construction zone," I explained. "And it's... it's too much right now. The memories. The noise." I didn't say it, but we both knew what I meant. The estate was where the trap had been set. It was where the poison had been left.
"Then where are we going?" Tristan asked.
"My penthouse," I said simply.
Tristan stared at me, genuinely surprised.
The Titan of Industry, the man who owned half of Manhattan real estate, was going to recover in my apartment.
"It has an elevator," I added. "And Marco has already stocked the fridge. And Nero is back from the vet, so he needs to be monitored."
Tristan looked at me for a long moment. Then, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
"Your penthouse," he repeated.
"My penthouse," I confirmed. "My rules."
His smile widened. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
The transition from the hospital to the penthouse was exhausting.
Tristan tried to hide it, but the car ride drained him. By the time Marco helped him out of the SUV and into the private elevator, he was pale and sweating, his jaw tight with pain.
I unlocked the door to the apartment.
The space felt different now. It had always been my sanctuary, a place I had built away from the Johnston influence. But now, bringing Tristan into it, it felt like I was finally bridging the two halves of my life.
Nero was asleep on the back of the sofa. He lifted his head as we walked in, letting out a soft, questioning meow. He looked thinner, his black coat lacking its usual luster, but his eyes were clear.
"Hey, buddy," Tristan murmured, pausing to gently scratch the cat under the chin with his left hand. Nero purred, leaning into the touch.
"Bedroom," I instructed, guiding Tristan down the short hallway.
My bedroom was large, flooded with natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. The bed was unmade, a stack of blueprints resting on the nightstand.
It wasn't the sterile perfection of the Master Suite at the estate. It was lived-in. It was mine.
Tristan stopped in the doorway, taking it in.
"It's beautiful," he said softly.
"It's messy," I corrected, quickly moving the blueprints to the floor and pulling down the duvet. "Come on. You need to lie down."
He didn't argue. He let me help him out of his suit jacket and unbutton his shirt. It was a slow, careful process, navigating around the heavy sling and the thick bandages covering his shoulder.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his chest bare, the scars from his past surgeries mixing with the fresh, ugly reality of the gunshot wound.
I gently pushed his good shoulder, guiding him back against the pillows.
I pulled the duvet up over him.
He looked up at me, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"Mina," he whispered.
"Rest," I said, smoothing the hair back from his forehead.
"I don't want to sleep," he fought it, his eyelids drooping. "I want to look at you."
"I'll be here when you wake up," I promised.
He reached out, his left hand grasping my wrist.
"Reversal of roles," he murmured, a faint, teasing note in his raspy voice. "You're taking care of me now."
"Don't get used to it," I smiled, though my heart ached at the sight of him so vulnerable. "Once that bone heals, you're back to making your own coffee."
He chuckled, the sound cutting off into a wince.
"Deal," he breathed.