Chapter 91 Public Apology 1
"I feel ridiculous."
"You feel nervous," I said softly, meeting his amber eyes in the mirror.
He didn't deny it. He let out a long breath, his left hand reaching up to briefly cover mine where it rested on his uninjured shoulder.
"The press conference is going to be a bloodbath," he muttered.
"Vane has the reporters vetted," I reminded him. "No ambush questions. You read the statement, you take a few pre-approved questions from the business journals regarding the transition of Veridian’s security protocols, and we leave."
"I know the plan, Mina. But they aren't going to care about security protocols. They're going to ask about Ida. They're going to ask about you."
He turned to face me. The physical healing was progressing well—the sharp, gray pallor of the hospital had faded, replaced by his usual tan, and the deep lines of pain around his mouth had smoothed out. But the emotional toll was still a raw, exposed nerve.
Ida’s trial was looming, dominating the headlines. The tabloids were having a field day, digging up every piece of dirt on the Johnston family history, analyzing the "Opera House Snare" with grotesque fascination.
And through it all, Tristan had remained silent, locked away in my penthouse, healing.
Until today.
"Let them ask," I said firmly, smoothing my hands down the lapels of his jacket. "You have nothing to hide anymore. The truth is out."
"The truth is out," he agreed, his voice dropping to a low, serious register. "And that's exactly why I need to do this."
He leaned down and kissed me—a quick, hard press of his lips against mine.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"I'm not the one getting behind the podium," I pointed out. "I'll be right backstage with Vane."
"I need to know you're there," he said. It wasn't a demand; it was a plea.
"I'll be right there," I promised.
The press conference was held in the grand atrium of the Veridian Designs headquarters.
It was packed. The flashbulbs started popping the moment we stepped out of the private elevator, creating a blinding, strobing wave of light. The noise was a deafening roar of overlapping questions shouted by dozens of reporters.
Vane walked ahead of us, clearing a path through the throng of people. I walked slightly behind Tristan, keeping my head down, letting him take the brunt of the attention.
When we reached the small staging area behind the heavy velvet curtains, Tristan stopped. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, ignoring the wince of pain that the movement caused.
He turned to me.
"Wish me luck," he murmured.
"You don't need luck," I smiled. "Just read the prompter."
He stepped through the curtains.
The noise in the atrium doubled in volume before abruptly dying down as Tristan stepped up to the podium.
I stood in the wings next to Vane, watching him on the monitor set up just offstage.
Tristan looked formidable. The sling was hidden, but the rigid posture and the slightly stiff way he held his right side were telltale signs of his injury to anyone looking closely. He gripped the edges of the podium with his left hand, his face a mask of absolute authority.
"Good morning," Tristan began, his deep, resonant voice cutting clearly through the microphones and echoing in the large space. "Thank you all for coming."
He didn't look at the teleprompter. He looked directly out into the sea of cameras.
"Over the past three weeks, there has been widespread speculation and reporting regarding the events at the Veridian Opera House," Tristan continued. "I am here today to clarify the timeline, address the changes in Veridian’s corporate structure, and issue a formal statement regarding the actions of Ida Stevens and Silas Vance."
He went through the business portion of the speech with cold, clinical efficiency. He confirmed Silas’s arrest and termination. He confirmed that Ida was permanently divested of all Veridian holdings and was awaiting trial in a secure psychiatric facility. He outlined the sweeping overhaul of the company's internal security division.
It was textbook crisis management. Vane nodded approvingly beside me.
But then, Tristan paused.
He let go of the podium. He took a slow breath.
And he deviated from the script.
"However," Tristan said, his voice changing, losing the sharp, corporate edge and softening into something dangerously raw. "There is another matter that requires clarification. A personal matter."
Vane stiffened next to me. "What is he doing?" the lawyer hissed under his breath.
On the monitor, I saw Tristan’s amber eyes sweep the crowd of reporters.
"Five years ago," Tristan said, his voice steady but thick with emotion, "my marriage to Minerva Hayes ended in a highly publicized and scandalous divorce. The narrative surrounding that event, fueled by leaked documents and anonymous sources, portrayed Minerva in a deeply negative light. It destroyed her reputation and her career in this city."
The atrium was dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. The reporters were hanging on his every word, their recorders thrust forward.
"I am here today to state, unequivocally and publicly, that the narrative was a lie," Tristan declared.
My breath caught in my throat. I squeezed my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms.
"The evidence gathered during the recent investigation into Ida Stevens has proven beyond any doubt that the events leading to my divorce were entirely fabricated," Tristan continued, his gaze unwavering. "Minerva Hayes was the victim of a calculated, malicious conspiracy designed to remove her from my life."
He paused again, swallowing hard. The Titan was shedding his armor, piece by piece, on live television.
"But the true tragedy," Tristan said softly, "is not that the conspiracy occurred. It is that I believed it."
The cameras flashed frantically, trying to capture the raw vulnerability on the billionaire's face.
"I failed to trust the woman I loved," Tristan admitted, the confession ringing loud and clear. "I allowed manipulation and my own blindness to destroy my family. Minerva endured the fallout of my failure with more grace and strength than I deserved."
He looked directly into the camera lens, and I knew he was looking at me, standing in the wings.
"I cannot erase the last five years," Tristan said. "I cannot undo the damage that was done to her name or the pain she suffered. But I can ensure that the truth is known. Minerva Hayes is, and always has been, a woman of impeccable character, profound talent, and unparalleled integrity."
He gripped the podium again, his expression hardening back into the formidable CEO.