Chapter 92 Public Apology 2
"She is currently the lead architect on the Johnston Estate renovation," Tristan concluded. "And I consider it the greatest privilege of my life that she has agreed to work with me again. Thank you. I will not be taking any questions on this matter."
He turned away from the podium before the reporters could even begin shouting their demands.
He walked through the velvet curtains, stepping back into the dim staging area.
He looked exhausted. The adrenaline crash was immediate, his shoulders slumping as soon as he was out of the public eye.
Vane let out a long, slow whistle.
"Well," the lawyer said, adjusting his glasses. "The PR team is going to have a heart attack, but... it was a hell of a speech, Tristan."
Tristan didn't look at Vane. He looked at me.
I was crying. Silent, slow tears tracking down my cheeks.
I had told him I didn't care about the public narrative. I had told him that only the truth between us mattered.
But hearing him say it out loud... hearing him take the blame and clear my name in front of the entire world... it broke something loose inside me that I hadn't even realized was stuck. The heavy, invisible weight of being the "scandalous ex-wife" finally lifted.
Tristan crossed the small space between us. He didn't care about the stagehands or Vane. He pulled me against his chest with his good arm, holding me tight.
"I'm sorry I went off script," he murmured into my hair.
"Don't be," I whispered, burying my face in his suit jacket. "It was perfect."
"I needed them to know," he said fiercely. "I needed everyone to know."
I pulled back, looking up at him through my tears.
"They know," I smiled. "You just broke the internet, Tristan Johnston."
He let out a short, surprised laugh, the tension finally leaving his face.
"Let's go home," he said.
We didn't go back to the penthouse.
"Where are we going?" I asked, looking out the tinted window of the SUV as the driver bypassed the turn for my apartment building and headed toward the bridge.
"The estate," Tristan said. He was leaning his head back against the leather seat, looking utterly drained but incredibly peaceful.
"Tristan, the construction—"
"Silas halted the work inside the main house after the Opera House incident to do the security sweep," Tristan interrupted gently. "It's quiet. I had Marco go over this morning and prepare the east wing. The master suite is ready."
I looked at him, surprised. "You want to go back there? Now?"
"I don't want to hide in your apartment forever, Mina," he said, turning his head to look at me. "The estate is our home. Or it will be, when you're finished with it. I want to go back and face it."
I understood. The penthouse was a safe harbor, but it was temporary. If we were going to build a life together, we had to reclaim the ground we had lost.
We pulled through the heavy iron gates of the Johnston Estate an hour later.
The difference in security was immediately apparent. The guards were different men, wearing Veridian-issued uniforms, standing at strict attention. The perimeter felt completely locked down, but in a professional, organized way, not the paranoid frenzy of Silas’s reign.
Marco was waiting for us at the front door. He beamed when he saw Tristan get out of the SUV.
"Welcome home, sir. Ms. Hayes," Marco greeted us, taking Tristan’s coat. "The east wing is fully prepped. I took the liberty of setting up a light dinner in the small dining room."
"Thank you, Marco," Tristan said.
We walked into the foyer.
The shattered glass and broken wood from the van crash had been completely cleared away. Temporary, heavy-duty doors were installed, shutting out the cold air.
Tristan stopped in the center of the space, looking around.
"It looks empty," he observed.
"It's a blank canvas," I corrected, linking my arm through his good one. "We get to decide what goes here now."
We ate dinner quietly, the adrenaline of the press conference finally ebbing away. Tristan looked exhausted by the time we finished, his eyelids drooping.
"Bedtime," I declared, standing up.
He didn't argue.
We walked upstairs to the east wing. Marco had set up one of the large guest suites to function as a temporary master bedroom while the west wing was being demolished.
It was warm, comfortable, and entirely free of memories.
I helped Tristan out of his suit and into his sweatpants. He sat on the edge of the bed while I went into the adjoining bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.
When I came back out, Tristan was standing by the large window, looking out over the dark grounds.
"You're supposed to be resting," I reminded him, repeating our familiar script.
He didn't turn around.
"Come here," he said softly.
I walked over, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind, resting my cheek against his broad, uninjured back.
"What are you looking at?" I asked.
"The future," he murmured.
He turned carefully in my arms, facing me. The room was dimly lit, but I could see the absolute clarity in his amber eyes.
"The press conference today wasn't just about clearing your name," he said, his voice low and serious.
"It wasn't?"
"No." He reached out with his left hand, gently cupping my face. "It was about closing the door on the past. Completely. Ida. The lies. The divorce. It's all done, Mina. It's behind us."
"I know," I whispered.
"So," he continued, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. "If the past is gone... I want to talk about the future."
My heart gave a little flutter.
"What about it?"
"I want you to finish the house," he said. "Take all the time you need. Build it exactly the way you want it. Make it yours."
"Ours," I corrected softly.
A brilliant, breathtaking smile broke across his face.
"Ours," he agreed. "And when it's done... when the dust is settled and the paint is dry..."
He stopped, his eyes searching mine, looking for any sign of hesitation or fear.
He found none.
"I'm going to ask you a question," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "And I'm going to need a different answer than the one you gave me in the kitchen."
He wasn't dropping to his knees. He wasn't groveling. He was standing tall, battered but unbroken, offering me a partnership.
I looked up at the man who had torn my world apart, and who had bled to put it back together.
"When the house is finished," I said, my voice steady and certain, "ask me whatever you want, Tristan."