Chapter 2 - The Six-Week Countdown
Before Rosalie could reply, Sabine was there. Her hand swept around Tristan’s elbow, her grip iron despite her practiced, glossy smile. She had spotted two columnists from the Seattle Times inching closer, sensing drama the way sharks smell iron in the tide.
"Darling, you're embarrassing everyone," Sabine purred, though her eyes were chips of dark flint as she swept them over Rosalie. "And you must be... Rosalie, isn't it? The former intern? I remember your name from the files. How delightful that you've found work with Jillian’s foundation. But Tristan and I are expected on stage for the presentation."
She barely glanced at Leo. In fact, she deliberately looked over the top of the boy’s head, as though acknowledging his existence would make the air dirty.
Rosalie smiled—a cold, knowing curve of her lips that made Sabine’s posture stiffen. "Please don't let me keep you, Miss Crowell. Tristan, take your fiancée. My son and I were just leaving."
"Rosalie, wait," Tristan demanded, rising to his full height. He loomed over both women, but the commanding aura that usually made boardroom directors shrink had no effect on the woman in navy. "We need to talk. Tonight. Give me five minutes."
"You had five minutes three years ago," Rosalie whispered, leaning in just enough so that only he could hear the raw truth in her words. "You had five minutes when your security detail escorted me out into the rain while your father called me a gold-digging whore. You had five minutes when your attorneys threatened to file fraud charges if I ever tried to contact you again. You had your five minutes, Tristan. You spent them signing that non-disclosure agreement."
She didn't wait for his answer. She scooped Leo into her arms, adjusting him comfortably on her hip, and turned her back on him. She walked toward the side exit with an easy, unhurried grace, leaving him standing in the center of the gala floor.
Sabine’s nails dug deeper into his sleeve. "Tristan, control yourself. People are watching. Look at Marcus Thorne—he’s practically drooling waiting for a scandal to tank the Hollis stock before the merger."
"Did you see him, Sabine?" Tristan said, his voice stripped bare. He pulled his arm free of her grasp, not caring that a society photographer snapped a shot of the sudden rift between the golden couple. "Did you look at that boy?"
"I saw a child," Sabine dismissed smoothly, smoothing down the front of her burgundy silk gown. "A child belonging to a woman who attempted to extort your family for millions before our engagement. Do you have amnesia? St. Jude Genomics tested the sample. The results were conclusive. You were excluded as the father. Zero percent."
"Then why does he have my face?" Tristan challenged, his voice rising, drawing curious glances from a nearby table of investors. "Why does he have my eyes? Why does he have the Hollis dimple?"
"Coincidence. Genetics do strange things. Or perhaps she found someone who vaguely resembled you to make her claims more believable back then," Sabine suggested, her tone laced with cool contempt. "Don't let her derail us, Tristan. The wedding is in six weeks. The board meets on Tuesday to ratify your appointment as CEO once our families' shares merge. You cannot afford to let an old fling disrupt your life."
Tristan looked toward the exit doors. They were swinging shut. Rosalie was gone, vanished into the Seattle drizzle, but the ghost she left behind refused to dissolve. For thirty-six months, he had told himself that she was a liar. He had buried his grief, his confusion, and the lingering ache of a romance that had felt so real, replacing it with the cold, sterile logic of a corporate alliance with Sabine Crowell.
May you like
Now, that logic felt like paper burning in his hands.
"I need some air," Tristan muttered, turning away from the stage, from the photographers, and from the woman he was supposed to marry.
