Alexis looked like he was going to be sick. He slumped back in the armchair, his face ashen, his hands trembling slightly in his lap. The revelation had short-circuited his brain.
"She never said..." he muttered, staring blankly at the floor. "She never told me..."
Blair stood over him, her expression carved from ice. Watching him crumble, she didn't see the star he had become; she only saw the raw, desperate boy she’d rescued from that Brooklyn club three years ago. She had spent three years turning that gutter-born ambition into gold, only for the gold to try and melt the hands that shaped it.
The coldness in Blair's chest hardened into something impenetrable.
A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence. Before Blair could respond, the door swung open. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode in. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit, his dark hair swept back, his features aristocratic and refined.
It was Tristan Cromwell. Her cousin.
Tristan was carrying her black cashmere coat over his arm—he must have intercepted her assistant on the way in. He walked straight past Alexis as if he were a piece of furniture. He reached Blair and draped the coat over her shoulders, his movements natural and protective.
"Blair," he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "Why are you hiding in here? The lobby is crawling with reporters." He reached up and ruffled her hair, a familiar, brotherly gesture that instantly softened the sharp lines of her face.
Blair felt the knot in her shoulders loosen just a fraction. "Tristan," she said, looking up at him. "What are you doing here?"
"Butler is already back at the presidential suite, and he’s in a foul mood," Tristan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He sent me to fetch you before you did something the McIntyre family would have to pay to bury. Aunt Joella is on the other line with him now."
Alexis, still slumped in the chair, watched this interaction with wide eyes. A sharp, bitter spike of jealousy pierced through his shock. Who the hell was this guy? The way he touched her—it wasn't professional.
Tristan finally turned his head, acknowledging Alexis for the first time. His eyes were polite, but the look was utterly dismissive.
"Mr. Ashley," Tristan said with a curt nod. "Congratulations on your award. Enjoy it—it might be your last."
Alexis scrambled to his feet, his face flushing. Tristan turned back to Blair, his expression softening. "Let's go. The car is waiting at the private entrance. Don't waste another second on things that don't matter."
Blair nodded. She adjusted her coat, preparing to leave without a backward glance.
"Wait!" Alexis blurted out. "Who are you?"
Blair stopped. She turned her head slowly, looking at Alexis over her shoulder. Her eyes were empty, the gaze of a Glover looking at a spent resource.
Tristan smiled. It was a confident, predatory smile. He stepped closer to Blair, placing one arm securely around her shoulders.
"I'm her family," Tristan said, his voice dropping low and sharp. "And you're done wasting her time."
