17. Marianne #2
The sudden quiet left nothing but the freezing draft spilling from the dead plumbing in the corner. Tristan gestured toward the pipes.
“That’s unfair,” he said. “The heating unit is dead, Marianne. I’m not going to stand by and watch my family freeze just to prove some twisted point about independence.”
Marianne pointed a stiff finger directly at the wall of standardized shipping boxes.
She leaned closer, refusing to back down.
Tristan braced himself, trapped between her and the stacked cartons in the center of the half-dismantled living room.
The last physical traces of her independence had vanished, swallowed entirely by the cardboard.
He had boxed up everything she built in under three hours.
She stood planted on the floorboards, too angry to retreat.
He actually thought a signed lease could erase his betrayal.
He stood here in the draft, unable to comprehend why she refused to let his estate manager pack up her life.
He was still the exact same willfully blind man she had walked out on.
“You didn’t learn a single thing from that dinner, did you?” she asked. “You’re still that untouched, arrogant CEO who genuinely thinks a platinum card fixes a broken relationship.”
He took a half-step forward, raising a hand in a desperate bid to calm things down.
“Marianne, please just listen to me—”
She refused to back down.
“What’s next?” she demanded. “Are you going to hire George to call me a pregnant social climber? Cut a check to remind me our daughter is just another line item on the estate ledger? Because that’s the only language you know how to speak.”
Tristan recoiled. His shoulders dropped as he finally realized he had lost. He took a slow, unsteady step backward in defeat. The absolute devastation in his face told her she had finally broken through the arrogance. He actually looked terrified.
He scrambled for a response, but the damage was already done. Marianne tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, bracing herself against the exhaustion washing over her in the freezing room. She expected to feel triumphant watching him realize how he failed.
Instead, she just felt tired. I believed scrubbing those bakery pans meant he was learning how to be a partner. I was so wrong.
No one spoke, leaving nothing but the biting coastal wind to sweep through the open doorway. Near the landing, George cleared his throat. The logistics manager shifted his weight, his shoe scraping against the floorboards.
“Mr. Hawthorne?” George asked. “Do you want my guys to pause on the kitchenware, or should we finish loading the truck?”
Marianne turned to the foreman. She kept her grip locked on the canvas strap and refused to yield in front of his employees.
“Touch one more plate and I will dial 911 right now,” she said. “Get out of my home.”
George blinked, glancing toward Tristan for the final word. Tristan swallowed his pride. He raised his hand, gesturing toward the open doorway.
“Drop the boxes, George,” Tristan said. “Bring the wardrobe crates back upstairs and send the trucks back to the estate. I’m handling the unpacking myself.”
The foreman nodded once. He signaled the rest of the uniformed men, and a loud clatter filled the apartment as the crew dropped their cardboard stacks. The men filed out of the apartment, their boots echoing down the narrow stairwell as they abandoned the job.
Tristan stood alone, staring at the sealed carton resting near his boots. He dug a pocketknife from his coat, flicked it open, and sliced through the packing tape he had just paid them to apply.
Tristan stepped toward the nearest sealed kitchen box, gripping the open pocketknife. He reached forward to slice the center seam. Marianne released her bag, thrusting a hand out to stop him.
“Put the knife away, Tristan,” she said. “Step away from my boxes and get out. Do not come back here until you figure out the difference between being a partner and being a dictator.”
Tristan froze. The blade hovered inches from the brown cardboard, held perfectly still.
He looked from the open blade to her pale face, pausing as he tried to come up with a compromise.
She knew he expected her to cave to avoid the physical labor of lifting the crates.
He was waiting for the exhaustion of her pregnancy and an eight-hour bakery shift to finally wear her down.
“You are right,” he said. “But I can’t just leave you with a packed kitchen after you worked an eight-hour shift. Just let me unpack the heavy stuff so I can undo what I just did.”
Marianne shook her head, leaning her weight onto her back leg to ease the ache. Yes, unpacking a kitchen alone right now was impossible, but she didn’t need his guilt-ridden charity to manage it. She didn’t need his money when she had neighbors who would actually help her.
“I am not touching the heavy stuff, because Elias is coming upstairs to do it for me,” she said. “I don’t need you to manage my life anymore. Leave.”
Tristan blinked. The mention of the landlord’s name completely deflated him. His posture shifted, his protective instinct fading.
He pressed the release on the handle, folded the blade shut with a dull click, and slid the knife back into his coat pocket. He stepped away from the untouched carton, avoiding her entirely as he walked out the door.
The second he stepped out into the hall, Marianne moved forward and shoved the door.
It slammed into the jamb, echoing through the half-empty room.
She threw the deadbolt, a solid click sealing the entrance.
She pressed her palm flat against the deadbolt, leaning her weight against the door to steady herself.
She stood alone in the freezing living room, staring at the cardboard boxes that proved he hadn’t changed at all.