Chapter 96 Mistress
It was two weeks later. The demolition of the west wing was complete, leaving a massive, gaping hole in the side of the estate that looked out over the gardens. The construction crews were laying the new foundation, the sound of heavy machinery a constant, reassuring hum.
Tristan’s arm was still in a sling, but he was moving much better. Dr. Aris was optimistic about a full recovery, though he had warned Tristan that the shoulder would likely ache when it rained for the rest of his life.
"A small price to pay," Tristan had replied dryly.
We decided to leave the estate for the first time since the press conference.
"We need a date," Tristan had declared that morning, standing in the doorway of the temporary master suite, watching me dry my hair. "A normal, boring, cliché date."
"A date?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Tristan, you can barely cut your own steak."
"Then we'll get pasta," he countered stubbornly. "I'm going stir-crazy, Mina. I need to see the city. I need to take you out."
I couldn't say no to the hopeful look in his eyes.
We went to a small, obscure Italian restaurant in the Village. It wasn't the kind of place a billionaire usually frequented—there were no white tablecloths, and the lighting was a little too bright—but the food was incredible, and more importantly, no one recognized us.
We sat in a booth in the back. Tristan managed a bowl of linguine with his left hand, occasionally dropping a noodle onto his shirt and cursing under his breath.
I laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound that felt entirely foreign.
"It's not funny," he grumbled, though his eyes were dancing with amusement.
"It's a little funny," I teased, reaching across the table with a napkin to wipe a spot of marinara sauce off his chin.
He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm.
"I love hearing you laugh," he said softly, the amusement fading into a deep, intense sincerity. "I feel like I haven't heard it in a decade."
"You've been making me laugh a lot lately," I admitted.
"Good. I plan to keep doing it."
We finished dinner and decided to walk. It was a crisp, clear evening, the air smelling of roasted nuts and exhaust fumes—the quintessential perfume of New York.
We walked slowly, accommodating Tristan’s pace. He kept his left arm wrapped securely around my waist, pulling me close against his side.
We didn't talk much. We just absorbed the city. We watched a street performer playing a saxophone. We looked in the windows of closed boutiques. We existed in the anonymous flow of the crowd.
It felt incredibly, impossibly normal.
We turned down a quieter side street, heading toward where Silas’s replacement—a quiet, highly professional former Secret Service agent named Davis—was waiting with the SUV.
"I like this," Tristan murmured, breaking the silence. "Just walking with you."
"Me too."
We were passing a small, upscale cocktail bar. The door was open, spilling warm light and the low hum of conversation onto the sidewalk.
A group of people walked out, laughing loudly.
One of the women, wearing a tight, shimmering dress, stumbled slightly on her heels. Her companion caught her arm, steadying her.
"Careful, darling," the man joked loudly. "Don't want you looking like a messy mistress."
The woman laughed, a shrill, piercing sound. "Oh, please. I'm too expensive to be a mistress."
The words hung in the air.
Mistress.
It wasn't aimed at me. It was a careless, drunken joke between strangers.
But the word hit me like a physical blow.
The street disappeared. The smell of the roasted nuts vanished.
Suddenly, I was back in the courtroom five years ago. I was hearing the whispers of the gallery. I was seeing the tabloid headlines flashing behind my eyes.
Gold-Digger. Traitor. Mistress.
My chest seized. The air was suddenly too thin. I couldn't pull enough oxygen into my lungs.
I stopped walking, my hand flying up to clutch my throat.
"Mina?" Tristan asked, stopping instantly. He looked down at me, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What is it?"
I tried to speak, but my vocal cords were paralyzed. The edges of my vision began to darken, a thick, suffocating panic rising in my throat.
The walls were closing in. The phantom flashes of cameras blinded me.
"Mina," Tristan said again, his voice sharpening with alarm. He dropped his good arm from my waist and grabbed my shoulders. "Look at me. What's wrong?"
I couldn't look at him. I squeezed my eyes shut, gasping for air, a high, thin wheeze escaping my lips.
"I can't," I choked out. "I can't breathe."
I was having a panic attack.
A massive, overwhelming panic attack, triggered by a single word on a random street corner.
"Okay. Okay, I've got you," Tristan said. His voice was remarkably calm, the Titan instantly switching into crisis mode.
He didn't care about his shoulder. He wrapped his good arm tightly around my back, pulling me flush against his chest, shielding me from the street.
"Davis!" Tristan barked over his shoulder. "Bring the car. Now!"
I buried my face in Tristan’s coat, my hands gripping his lapels like a lifeline. I was shaking violently, my entire body trembling with the force of the terror.
"Breathe with me, Mina," Tristan commanded softly, pressing his cheek against my hair. "Listen to my heart. Match my breathing. In... and out."
I tried. I focused on the steady, solid thud of his heart beneath my ear. I tried to pull the air in, but it felt like breathing through a straw.
The SUV screeched to a halt beside us.
Tristan practically carried me into the back seat, climbing in awkwardly behind me. He pulled me onto his lap, ignoring the awkward angle of his sling, wrapping both arms around me as best he could.
"Drive," he told Davis. "Get us home."
The car sped away from the curb.
I sobbed against his chest, the panic slowly subsiding into a deep, humiliating exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," I cried, the tears soaking his shirt. "I'm so sorry. It was just a word. It was just a stupid word."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Tristan said fiercely, his hand stroking my hair. "It's trauma, Mina. It doesn't just disappear because the truth is out."