Page 43 of False Heir

“Tristan, stop.” I pushed against his chest, but he misread it as playful resistance, and his finger slipped inside me. That was the moment everything shattered.

“Get your hand off me!” My voice cracked like a whip in the early morning stillness of the Boston townhouse.

He stilled, confusion etched on his face. “What?”

“Is this how you see me? As someone to be used at your convenience?” My anger boiled over. “You didn’t want to marry me so you wouldn’t put me in danger but it’s okay as long as you get to use me whenever you want?”

Suddenly sobered, he blinked at me, a hint of hurt flashing in his eyes before it was quickly replaced with a hardened expression. “That’s not what this is—“

“Don’t.” I cut him off sharply, pushing myself up to a sitting position. “I am not one of your possessions, Tristan.”

He opened his mouth to say something, to perhaps argue or apologize, but closed it again, his jaw clenching. The tension in the room was thick as the quiet stretched between us.

“You have no fucking idea what I would do for you,” he said. “What I have done for you. What I have done for you and our babies.”

I glared at him, anger clouding my thoughts. “Do you think that’s the kind of thing Malachy used to say to your mother?”

The comment hit like a slap across the face. Tristan recoiled as if I’d physically struck him, the shock quickly replaced by a dark glower. “Don’t you dare bring my mother into this,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous. “You know what? Forget I came in here. I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with consequences we hadn’t yet unraveled. He rose from the bed, his tall figure casting an imposing shadow in the dim light that seeped through the drawn curtains.

“Tristan,” I called out, regret washing over me as I saw him stiffen. The anger was gone, leaving only a hollow feeling in my chest. But saying sorry seemed too little too late. “Wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around. His back was still to me, his shoulders rigid and unyielding. I didn’t need to see his face to know that he was hurting.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, not sure if my apology would reach him or if it was enough to mend what I’d broken.

He stood there for a moment before responding, “Not tonight, Ade.” The once warm nickname sounded cold and distant, stinging more than I thought possible. “Sleep.”

And then he closed the door behind himself.

This was fucked. I immediately knew I had really messed up, even though I was right to be angry.

This was bigger than us, bigger than an ill-timed advance or a lapse in judgment. This was about the self-destructive spiral that seemed to grip him more tightly with each passing day—a spiral I feared I could not stop.

But as he walked away it felt like the chasm between us grew wider. The burden of his legacy and the ominous shadow of his father hung over us, suffocating and undeniable. In that moment, I understood the painful reality—no matter how fiercely I loved him, I couldn’t protect Tristan from the darkness within.

I could do absolutely nothing to protect him from himself.

But I could protect him from Silvio Orsini.

Chapter Seventeen: Tristan

Adriana might have been alive...but I had to come to terms with the fact that I probably wouldn’t make her happy.

The pounding in my head matched the rhythm of my heart—each throb a grim reminder of last night’s excess, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw Killian falling to the floor of the warehouse like he was made of lead.

I blinked against the morning light streaming through the windows of the townhouse, fragments of memories floating like debris after a storm. What had I done? I could barely piece together the events, but the weight of my actions—or potential lack thereof—sat heavy on my chest.

“Find anything?” Adriana’s voice cut through the haze of my hangover as she sifted through a pile of letters strewn across the dining table.

We had gone back to the fucking box, but it felt more pointless than ever.

I dragged my hand down my face, trying to shake off the remnants of alcohol clouding my thoughts. “Not yet,” I murmured, my gaze drifting over the box’s contents scattered between us—photos from a past that seemed both distant and dangerously close.

Adriana, with her short, dark hair falling messily around her face, looked up from a faded photograph, the corners of her mouth downturned in concentration. She was all sharp edges this morning, her athletic frame wrapped in a plush white robe that did little to soften the intensity of her scrutiny.

We sat there, surrounded by echoes of a family history that refused to stay buried, each item a potential clue to unraveling the attack on the Callahan estate. The gravity of our search wasn’t lost on me, nor was the fact that Adriana was here, with me, despite everything.

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