Chapter 55

SARA 

 I’ve always known that Yvonne was hopelessly in love with Tristan; it was written in every lingering glance and every over-eager shadow she cast by his side. It truly is a marvel how Alpha Tristan, a man trained to scent fear and track enemies from miles away, has not been able to figure this out in all the years they have known each other.

"Men! They can be blind to even the most obvious, glaring truths when it doesn't suit their narrative," I muttered to myself, watching the door click shut after a visibly disappointed and shaken Yvonne finally retreated.

But in Tristan's defense, how was he truly supposed to know if Yvonne never gathered the courage to say a single word? And yet, how could she have said anything? During those years, she was supposed to be Claudia’s loyal friend, and Tristan was publicly, devotedly dating Claudia. I felt a sharp, familiar pang as I flashed back to my own devastating reaction when Tristan rejected me—discarding our history like trash—and named Claudia his fated mate in that very same breath.

When people speak of a friend stabbing them in the back, that was the absolute height of it. It made me wonder, in the quiet, dark corners of my mind: how would Claudia have reacted if she had ever discovered that her "best friend," Yvonne, was secretly pining for her man, waiting for the first opportunity to step into her shoes?

"Why are you smiling sheepishly?" Tristan’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. He was glaring at me, his eyes dark with a mixture of irritation and something I couldn't quite name.

"Oh, it's just a beautiful little drama you’re acting out with Yvonne," I replied coolly. "It wasn't in my place to get involved, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. However, if you want my advice—unsolicited as it may be—I’d suggest you go after her."

"And why on earth would I do that?" he snapped, his posture bristling with unearned Alpha aggression.

"Do I have permission to speak freely, Alpha?" I asked, my voice calm and level. I knew Tristan's patience was a short-circuited wire; it could change abruptly from a simmer to a flash-fire.

He regarded me for a long, silent moment, his gaze searching my face for a trap. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "You may. Say what you have to say."

"I know you have your pride, Tristan; it’s a quintessential trait for men like you. But the reality is that Yvonne loves you very much. Deeply. Perhaps even dangerously. I don't know if you harbor feelings for her too, but I know you loved the attention enough to kiss her the other day. You almost fucked her right here before I interrupted you. That is the reason why seeing you with me now is absolutely breaking her heart. She obviously doesn't know that Claudia and I were actually good friends, and she expected your love and focus to naturally shift to her now that Claudia is no longer in the picture. I don't know how much you encouraged her fantasies—though I suspect it was more than you'd admit—but you should know that a woman wouldn't be this loyal, this committed to your every whim, if she wasn't emotionally invested in your future together. She probably spent months dreaming that the two of you would run this pack as a power couple. Now that you’ve changed the rules of the game, she’s out of options. She’s desperate, Tristan. And desperate people do desperate, unpredictable things."

I hadn’t planned to give such a lengthy, psychological lecture, but I realized I couldn't stop myself once I got going. The words felt like they needed to be said, if only to watch him squirm under the weight of the truth.

"You are lucky you aren't strong enough for manual labor right now. If you were, I would have sent you to the basement to scrub every inch of the floors until your hands bled," he hissed, cussing under his breath as he turned and stormed out in a fit of redirected anger.

Left alone, I leaned back and slowly touched my fingers to my lips. I remembered the texture of his mouth from the night before. It had been nice to kiss him again after such an agonizingly long time, but strangely, the spark didn't feel the same. It felt... stale. Like a relic from a past life that no longer fit the woman I had become.

I couldn't remember exactly how long he remained out of the room, but as the first gray streaks of dawn approached, I became aware of his heavy presence on the bed beside me. However, by the time I fully woke, he was already up and moving.

The morning light was a cold, clinical blue as it spilled across the polished marble floors of the penthouse. I was back in the sheer kimono, though I’d wrapped the silk so tightly around my frame it was a wonder I could still draw breath. My nerves were shot; every time the HVAC system hummed or a pipe groaned, I jumped. My lips still felt scorched and sensitive from the night before, a physical reminder of a mistake I wasn't ready to categorize. I had collapsed from pure emotional and physical exhaustion, and Dr. Leon had strictly recommended bed rest, but I couldn't stay still.

Tristan was already positioned at the breakfast bar, looking as though he’d spent the night sleeping in a suit of invisible armor. He was trying so hard to project the image of the "unbothered Alpha" that it was almost pathetic. His posture was rigid, his jaw set in a line of unyielding granite, but the way his hand trembled ever so slightly as he lifted his espresso gave the game away. He was unraveling.

"You’re late with the fresh towels," he barked, pointedly refusing to look in my direction. "The guest bathroom is a total mess. Do your job, Sara. Stop lounging."

I didn't argue. I walked past him to grab the heavy laundry basket, feeling his eyes track my every movement. It wasn't the cold, professional gaze he was trying to project; it was a lingering, heavy heat that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. When I reached for a spray bottle on the counter near him, he flinched violently, his coffee splashing over his knuckles.

"Watch it!" he snapped, his voice cracking. But as he reached for a napkin to wipe his hand, his fingers accidentally grazed the sensitive skin of my wrist.

He jerked away instantly, as if I were made of live high-voltage wire. His face flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson, the color spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears.

"Sorry, Alpha," I said, my voice dripping with as much honeyed sarcasm as I dared to muster in my weakened state. "I didn’t mean to disturb your... intense focus."

"Just... just clean," he muttered, turning his back to me completely. His ears remained a tell-tale red. It was the most awkward, lopsided power dynamic I’d ever experienced—a man trying to play the ruthless tyrant while his own body language screamed that he was losing his grip on the situation.

Suddenly, the electronic lock on the main door chimed. Yvonne stormed in, looking like a woman who hadn't slept a wink in forty-eight hours. Her hair was slightly disarrayed, and her eyes were rimmed with red. She didn't even acknowledge my presence; she made a direct, frantic beeline for Tristan.

"We need to talk. Now. In the study," she hissed, her voice vibrating with an urgency that bordered on panic. Without waiting for his consent or a single word of greeting, she marched toward the heavy oak doors of the study, leaving a trail of high-strung tension in her wake.