14. Tristan #2
“She’s out cold, and my deadbolts hold,” Elias said. “Sit out here and turn into an icicle for all I care. Just keep away from her door.”
Tristan nodded once. He took the order without a single argument.
Elias turned his back and walked away, leaving him alone in the freezing vehicle.
Hours dragged into the dead of the winter night. The temperature inside the vehicle continued to drop, turning the condensation on the windshield to ice. The wet cotton of his shirt froze solid.
At 3:00 AM, the secondary business phone began to vibrate.
The device rattled violently in the cupholder. The digital screen flashed, casting a harsh strobe of blue light across the dark interior of the cabin. A rapid string of unread message banners scrolled across the display.
Tristan shifted in the freezing seat. His joints ached from the cold. He reached across the center divide, gripped the overcoat, and dragged the fabric across his lap to hold in the warmth.
He stared at the flashing caller ID.
“Burn it down,” he whispered to the screen.
He grabbed the device from the console. His thumb was numb and clumsy in the freezing air, struggling to find the proper grip. He tapped the speaker button.
“Answer me, Tristan! Genevieve’s father is panicking because their entire funding block is locked in escrow, and Lancaster formally killed the merger. You are flushing twelve years of my legacy down the drain!”
Winston’s frantic voice tore through the confined space. The compressed static hissed from the speaker, bouncing off the frosted glass.
Tristan leaned his head back against the leather headrest. He held the phone loosely in his blistered hand. He did not look at the screen. He kept his eyes locked on the frosted windshield, tracking the dark, silent window of the fourth-floor walk-up.
Twenty-four hours ago, that exact phone call would have sent him into a panic to salvage the acquisition.
Tonight, the massive corporate valuations bleeding out on the trading floor meant nothing compared to the quiet brick building across the street.
Winston could scream until his lungs gave out.
The board could liquidate the holding company.
None of it mattered as long as she stayed warm in that room.
“The acquisition is over, Dad,” Tristan said, his voice dead and hollow in the cold air. “Do not dial this line again. I’m staying on the coast.”
“You get in a car and report to my executive suite by eight in the morning, or I swear to God I’ll strip your equity in this busi—”
Tristan pressed his stiff thumb against the glowing red icon.
The call dropped mid-word. The sudden silence rushed back into the freezing cabin, swallowing the final threat. He did not wait for the next call to come through.
He shoved the device deep into his pocket, silencing the executive floor to watch her window.
Dawn broke over the coastal town. A pale, washed-out light crept over the rooftops, illuminating the ice scattered across the street. Tristan pushed the heavy door of the SUV open.
His frozen dress shoes struck the concrete. His joints ached with the movement, stiff and sore from the hours spent in the unheated cabin. He pulled the overcoat tight across his chest to block the wind.
He crossed the street toward a steaming coffee cart parked on the corner.
An older man in a knit beanie stood behind the counter, pouring dark roast into a paper cup. Tristan pulled his wallet from his pocket. His fingers were clumsy in the cold, too numb to easily separate the bills. He managed to extract a twenty, sliding the cash across the counter.
The vendor handed over the cup. Tristan wrapped both hands around the cup. The scalding heat soaked through the sleeve, biting into the torn, raw blisters on his palms. He didn’t drink the coffee. He just gripped the cardboard, letting the warmth soak into his knuckles to thaw the blood.
“Rough night, man?” the vendor asked, noticing the blood smeared on Tristan’s hands. “You look like you slept at the bottom of a subway stairwell.”
“Close enough,” Tristan said. “Just keep the twenty. I only needed the cup to thaw my fingers out.”
“Hey, whatever works for you,” the vendor said, pocketing the cash. “Watch your step by the curb, because the salt trucks missed this block completely.”
Tristan nodded. He turned away from the cart, bracing himself against the coastal draft.
The loud scrape of a deadbolt carried from across the street. The door of the walk-up swung outward.
Marianne stepped out of the building. She wore a winter coat zipped tight to her chin. The pale morning light highlighted the dark shadows under her eyes, her skin looking fragile and drained. She paused on the concrete landing, adjusting the strap of a worn canvas tote over her shoulder.
Tristan froze near the curb. The cardboard creaked under his tightened grip.
Every protective instinct he possessed demanded he hit the unlock button on his key fob.
He wanted to cross the street, pull open the passenger door of his vehicle, and force her into the heated leather seat.
Walking away from a warm, climate-controlled cabin to march over black ice in her condition was a brutal, unnecessary risk.
He closed his fist around the key fob hidden deep in his coat pocket.
He fought the impulse to intervene. Giving in to that exact instinct had already cost him his marriage. She had chosen the ice and the wind. Using the fob now would only prove he hadn’t changed at all.
“Don’t box her in,” he muttered to himself.
Tristan released his grip on the plastic fob. He walked to a nearby trash bin and dropped the full cup of coffee inside.
He left the keys in his pocket. He turned his back on the SUV, choosing to walk. The wind whipped across his face, stinging his exposed skin. He stepped onto the salted concrete, enduring the exact same biting cold she faced, keeping his eyes fixed on her back.