Chapter 8 - Truth on the Altar
Sabine opened the folder. The color drained from her face with such violence that her lips appeared blue.
Arthur snatched his folder, flipped through the pages, and his knuckles turned white against the edge of the table. "Tristan... this is an internal matter. We can discuss this in private—"
"No, we can't," Tristan cut him off, stepping forward until he loomed over Sabine. "You paid Gregory Vance a quarter of a million dollars from your family’s firm to falsify that genetic screening. You took Rosalie’s letter—a letter where she begged me to hold her while she was carrying my son—and you hid it in your safe. You stood beside me for three years, smiling, holding my hand, pretending to love me, while you knew that my baby was living in a drafty bungalow on sixty grand a year!"
"Tristan, listen to me!" Sabine cried, her composure shattering completely as she grabbed his sleeve. "I did it for us! You were throwing your life away on an intern! You were going to ruin the Hollis name! We belong together! We were built to rule this city!"
Tristan yanked his arm back as if she were made of venom. "You aren't a partner, Sabine. You're a sociopath."
He turned to his father, who had sunk back into his chair, breathing heavily. "And you. You knew. You knew the boy had my blood, and you chose stock valuations over your own grandson."
"Tristan," Arthur croaked, his voice cracking with age and sudden vulnerability. "The board... the company..."
"The board can fire me," Tristan said with absolute clarity. "In fact, I resign. Effective immediately. I am relinquishing my executive seat, my shares will be placed into a blind trust, and I am stepping down from Hollis Hospitality."
"You can't do that!" Arthur gasped, clutching his chest. "You are the face of this company!"
"Then the company can find a new face," Tristan said. "Because from this day forward, I have only one job. And that is being Leo's father."
He turned on his heel and walked out of the garden room. Behind him, Sabine’s desperate screams echoed across the terrace, followed by the sound of his mother weeping in horror as she read the depth of her family's betrayal. Tristan didn't look back once. He walked past the caterers, past the white tents, past the thousands of dead white roses, and drove off the island.
An hour later, the news hit the financial wires like a thunderclap: TRISTAN HOLLIS RESIGNS FROM HOLLIS HOSPITALITY; WEDDING TO SABINE CROWELL CANCELLED AMID FRAUD INVESTIGATION.
The stock dipped twelve percent by market close, but Tristan didn't check his phone.
He drove straight back to the small bungalow in Queen Anne. When he knocked on the door this time, he didn't wait for Rosalie to come outside. When she opened the door, he handed her the original copy of the hospital report.
Rosalie looked down at the paper. She had known the truth in her heart for four years, but seeing the official, incontrovertible proof—the 99.9998%—made her knees buckle. Tristan caught her before she could fall, his arms wrapping around her waist, holding her tight against his chest.
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She didn't push him away. She leaned into him, burying her face in his shoulder, and let out three years of lonely, exhausted tears.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, his own tears falling freely. "I am so, so sorry, Rosalie. I will spend the rest of my life making this right."
