My knees gave out as I stepped out of the car. I could barely stay on my feet, let alone walk.
Only then did Tristan seem to grasp that I wasn't faking anything. Wordlessly, he scooped me up, carried me into the bedroom, and laid me down with care.
The dizziness and weakness I felt clung to me stubbornly. Eyes shut, I didn't even have the strength to lift a finger.
Tristan pressed a glass of glucose water to my lips, and in that imperious tone I'd long since grown used to, commanded, "Drink."
I drained the glass of glucose water without a word.
That was Tristan's modus operandi. He'd let me down, then throw me a scrap of affection as if it made up for everything. The endless whiplash between cold and warmth had left me lost in doubt for five long years.
Did he ever truly care about me? Chasing the answer to that question was pathetic, and I'd wasted five years doing it. It was time to wake up.
I couldn't be bothered to figure out what was going through his mind. I murmured, "Thanks."
Tristan stayed put at the foot of the bed, staring down at me. "Aren't you going to ask me anything?"
I shook my head calmly.
He seemed a little put out by my reaction, and, unusually for him, actually started to explain himself. "It's not what you think. Winnie's just here because our family business is in trouble, and we need her—"
I cut him short. "As she should."
Tristan's eyes searched my face, as if he might catch the smallest crack in my composure, but there was nothing for him to find.
"Anna, it's just work between us now."
I nodded. "I know."
He went quiet, leaned down, and wrapped me in his arms. He then tried to kiss me.
He thought a kiss would smooth everything over like it always had. But this time, I turned my face away.
Blindsided by my refusal, Tristan stopped short, his face hardening in an instant. "Anna, I'm running out of patience. Don't push me."
I refused to meet his eyes.
That night, we slept in separate rooms. He let me have the master bedroom and took the guest room instead.
…
By the time I woke the next morning, Tristan was already gone.
I'd already made up my mind to leave, and I wanted to make a clean break. Thus, I went straight to the administration office and handed in my resignation.
Ben Fulton, the man in charge, gaped at the letter. "Madre Anna, what are you doing? Don Spallone only reassigned you. He never told you to quit."
I froze. "Reassigned?"
Ben stumbled over his words. "A few days ago, you touched something in the family vault without his permission. He was furious and fired the old vault keeper.
"But with the family short on people and no one else to fill the spot, he temporarily made you the one guarding the vault."
A chill cut straight through me. Again, it was because of that damn roll of film.
Because of Winnie's film, I was being shoved off to guard the vault—the most thankless post in the entire organization.
I forced down the storm tearing through me and asked, "So who's taking my place as head of intelligence?"
Ben's voice dropped to a whisper. "Winnie."
My legs almost gave out, and I caught myself with a palm to the wall. Even if I was already set on leaving, hearing that still struck me like a blade to the gut.
Tristan had never once given me any special treatment in the Spallone family. I had clawed my way up to head of intelligence on my own. And yet, with one word, he handed the position over to Winnie.
