10. Tristian
Chapter ten
Tristian
Iwoke the next morning to the grey light of dawn.
Someone had draped a blanket over me during the night. Resting on top of it was a new toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a small, handwritten note.
I noticed you fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. If you need anything, let me know.
— Margaret.
I set the note aside and went to the small, barely used bathroom to splash cold water on my face. My reflection stared back from the mirror, eyes hard, jaw clenched. Sleep hadn’t helped: I was still angry—at my father, at Ingrid’s father, this fucked-up world, and at my own helplessness.
When I stepped back into the room, a text from Noah was waiting on my phone.
Bastard
I would make a decision if I were you, son. As I said before, the clock is ticking.
My jaw tightened.
A soft knock at the door made me whip my head around. Margaret stood there, wringing her hands nervously.
“Tristian…” she said softly.
“Yes?” My voice came out sharper than intended.
“Your father,” she gulped, her eyes darting to the floor. “He just called the administrator’s office.”
The engine hadn’t even stopped vibrating before I was out of the car, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. I stormed up to my father’s mansion.
The door swung open before I could reach for the handle. Geoffrey, the butler, stood there with a stoic expression.
He was the only person in this house who actually saw me. He’d been the one to patch me up when I was bruised, witnessed my terrible teenage years… seen the security feed of me nearly demolishing the gate. He knew better than to make me wait.
“I’m not in the mood, Geo,” I snarled as I brushed past.
“I hadn’t said a word, sir,” Geoffrey replied smoothly, closing the door. “I could see from a mile away that you were not ‘in the mood.’”
I marched to the heavy oak doors of the study and kicked them open.
Noah sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk, looking up with a faint, infuriating smirk.
“Tristian, my dear boy... what brings you home—”
“You shut the fuck up,” I spat.
Noah’s playful mask dropped instantly. The air in the room turned cold. I approached the desk slowly. “You called the hospital? You told them you’re stopping the fucking payments?”
Noah shrugged, leaning back in his leather chair. “It was a way to gain your attention. Nothing more than a small threat.”
A threat? To end my mother’s life? “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” he snapped. “Be lucky I’m even keeping her in that miserable state at all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tristian, you and I both know,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register, “you haven’t been compliant, you’ve been spiraling, out of control—and I’ve grown tired of your behavior. You’re a Locke. And you will join this family—properly. It’s time you grew up.”
“Go to hell.”
I turned to leave, but my father’s voice stopped me. “I’m not finished, Tristian.”
I paused, shoulders tense, and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “What else do you have to say?”
“I am not going to force you to comply,” Noah said, standing up and walking around the desk. “But since you’re stubborn, listen closely. Either you start making an ‘effort’ to cooperate, or... you can slowly wave goodbye to your trust fund.”
I closed my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. I didn’t care about the money for myself, but that fund was my mother’s lifeline. It was her private care, private specialists, expensive treatments, her comfort, her slim chance at recovery.
I forced myself around to face him again, my gaze sharpening into slits. “What does ‘making an effort’ look like to you?”
A faint flash of victory crossed Noah’s face. He was lucky I didn’t punch it right off.
“Simple. I’m hosting a business party tomorrow night. Drop in. Smile. Shake hands. Appear… civilized. If you manage to act the part of a son, I’ll know you’re committed, I’ll consider that… progress.”
I felt the cage doors closing. My father was treating me like a delinquent child, holding my mother’s life as the ransom. I should destroy him here and now, and then this office, leave him for dead and never look at his face again.
But I couldn’t afford Mom’s bills alone. The prize money from the fight would help, but hospital bills were expensive.
Unless, I thought.
I cut it off.
But not quick enough.
Darragh’s leering grin flashed in my mind, cool as he had always been, yet menacing. In his hands, that belt. Always the fucking belt.
For a split second, I considered the alternative devil in my life.
I looked at Noah’s extended hand. I thought of my mother’s frail hand in the hospital; I thought of the bruise on Ingrid’s arm.
I was surrounded by people who needed me to be stronger than the monsters who wanted to run my life—and who, unfortunately, needed me to let them run my life, at least for now.
Question was, which was the lesser of two evils? Darragh, or my father?
Noah tilted his head. “So,” he said softly, like he was savoring my submission already, “do we have a deal… son?”
Ingrid
I waved goodbye to Mr. Arthur as I tucked my music sheets into my bag, my fingers trembling slightly. My father had delivered the news this morning: a business party this afternoon. It was a command, not an invitation.
I’d been trying so hard to stay on his good side lately.
It had been so difficult. My abuelita had been needling at him to let me be more independent, and he knew that she had overruled him several times, allowing me to go out when he never would.
But it’s always the same with my father.
He battles her, eases off of me for a while, mostly because his attention is diverted; then when she is gone, all that anger comes right back out at me. Simmer, wait, unleash, repeat.
Hence the new bruise he added to my arm after I visited Tristian’s apartment.
I sighed, my thoughts drifting helplessly to the brooding tattooed man.
I’d assumed a little distance might help me come back to myself after the night at the boxing match.
But the humiliating truth was, the closer I moved toward him, the less I wanted to breathe without him nearby.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was a constant presence in my mind, a distraction that made my fingers clumsy on the harp strings and my studies blur into nothingness.
My father shoved the door to the music room open, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Your dress is prepared in the tailoring room,” he grunted. He didn’t look at me; he looked at his watch. “The party starts in a few hours. Come with me.”
I followed him like a shadow.
He opened the door to the tailoring room, and I couldn’t help the gasp that escaped me. The dress was exquisite, extravagant—and so unbelievably over the top.
Terrifying layers of shimmering pink and rose gold fabric, beadwork so heavy it would make my shoulders ache.
Almost as heavy as my quinceanera dress, which I’d spent the entire night fighting back tears in.
But then, it wasn’t like my father got this for my comfort.
This wasn’t a dress for me. It was a trophy I was to wear so every businessman at this party envied Samuel Rodriguez’s display of wealth and his perfect family, with his perfect, obedient little puppet of a daughter.
“Thank you, Papa,” I whispered, not feeling the remotest hint of gratitude.
The click of the lock made my heart jump into my throat. I turned to see him leaning against the door, his eyes dark and empty, his tall, tailored frame blocking the exit completely. There was nowhere to go.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, and the air died in my lungs.
“Are you truly grateful for all the things I do for you, Ingrid?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Of course I am,” I lied.
A smirk twisted his mouth, before his hand shot out. He gripped my arm—right over the bruise he’d given me the other day. I let out a sharp squeal of pain, tears instantly pricking my eyes.
“Well, you sure as hell don’t act like it,” he seethed, his face inches from mine.
“Your abuelita doesn’t have the slightest clue how much I sacrifice for an ungrateful brat.
Listen closely.” His voice dropped, dark and venomous.
“She does not dictate you. I do. You belong to me. I say what you do, when you do it, and how you do it. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded frantically, a single tear escaping.
His fingers dug impossibly deeper into my skin. “You are nothing without me, Ingrid,” he whispered.
Finally, with one last agonizing squeeze, he released me. Then he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind.
I collapsed to my knees, clutching my arm, the sobs finally breaking through.
I wished Tristian were here. I wished he could take me away from this terrible house. I wished my mother would say something—anything—instead of just watching me drown.
But wishing had never once saved me before.