Chapter 9 - Broken Glass and Second Chances
The months that followed were not an easy fairy tale. Healing never is.
The scandal rocked the Pacific Northwest. Within weeks, the state bar association launched a formal ethics investigation into Sabine Crowell and her firm. Faced with irrefutable financial evidence of witness tampering and fraud, Sabine was forced to surrender her law license and quietly relocated to an estate in southern California, her reputation in Seattle high society permanently annihilated. Arthur Hollis suffered another minor stroke, retiring entirely from public life, spending his remaining days secluded on Bainbridge Island, ignored by the son he had tried to control.
Tristan did not immediately move into Rosalie’s home. He knew that trust, once shattered like crystal, could not be repaired overnight with grand romantic gestures. Instead, he rented a modest apartment three blocks away.
Every morning at seven-thirty, he walked to her house to walk Leo to preschool.
At first, Leo was shy, holding tight to his mother’s fingers while Tristan walked beside them. But Tristan was patient. He learned that Leo hated the crust on his toast, that his favorite dinosaur was the Triceratops, and that he needed his worn one-eared bear tucked under his left arm before he could fall asleep.
Tristan didn't buy flashy sports cars or hire private planes. He bought a red wagon and pulled Leo through the park on Saturday afternoons. He sat on the floor of Rosalie’s living room, building clumsy towers out of wooden blocks, letting the toddler knock them down over and over again until the room was filled with uncontrollable baby giggles.
Rosalie watched him from the kitchen doorway, watching the way this once-untouchable corporate titan would happily sit with oatmeal smeared on his shirt, entirely focused on making their son laugh.
One rainy Friday evening, after Leo had finally fallen asleep, Rosalie poured two mugs of chamomile tea and brought them out to the small back porch. Tristan sat on the wooden bench, his sleeves rolled up, looking tired but genuinely, deeply peaceful.
"You're good with him," Rosalie said softly, handing him a mug.
Tristan looked up, his gray eyes soft in the amber porch light. "He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, Rosalie. And he only exists because of your strength. You protected him when I failed you."
"You were blind, Tristan," she said, looking out at the wet garden. "You let people who didn't care about your soul make choices for your life."
"I know," he said. He reached out slowly, giving her ample time to pull away, and placed his warm palm over her hand on the armrest. "I started a new consulting firm last week. Just four partners. Sustainable tourism, conservation projects. No corporate politics. No high-society galas. I want a life that matters."
Rosalie turned her hand over, intertwining her fingers with his. The touch sent a familiar, electric warmth racing through her veins. "And what about us?"
May you like
Tristan looked at her with an intensity that took her breath away. "There is no 'us' until you tell me there is. I will wait five years, ten years, or the rest of my life. I will be your son's father, and I will be your protector, whether you love me again or not."
Rosalie smiled—a real, radiant smile that reached her eyes for the first time in four years. "Don't make me wait ten years, Tristan. We've already lost too much time."
