“Go on,” I encourage, as two half-full glasses appear in my periphery.
“What you need to own, and I hope you will, is your fucking disgraceful behavior both prior to her birthday andafter. I know you are affected by what happened to her; we all are. But what you put her through, deliberate or not, was pure shit, Mas.”
“I know,” I drawl, taking a generous sip of the amber fluid and savoring the burn as it glides down my throat. “I need to make amends, and I will. None of it was deliberate, by the way, and it stings a little that you’d throw that out there?—”
“You’re hurt that I’m being honest? Wanting answers?”
“No, asshole. I’m hurt that you think I’m that much of a prick.”
“You demanded two masseuses be set up and waiting for you in your office, knowing full well Sabrina would bear witness to the whole charade.”
“I didn’t fuck them.”
“You didn’t need to! The optics were horrendous, Mason. She left in tears.”
“I didn’t fuck them,” I protest again, this time into my glass. The statement is a promise to the liquid, keeping everything together right now.
“Mason. Fuck. Listen to me for once in your fucking life. Please!” He sinks both hands into his longish strands of dirty blonde hair, his drink abandoned on the custom Arteco table. This is vulnerable, desperate Trystan. I’ve seen this once before, and it didn’t end well.
“Don’t treat her like shit. Don’t do it, I’m begging you. She’s good at her job and I like her. A lot. So do Helen and Sean. She’s a good fit, a great fit. And you know she will not walk away because she needs money for her sister’s medical. Don’t manipulate her desperate predicament. Don’t do to her what you did to me. Please.”
This time, my hands tug at my hair. “It’s a contract, Trys. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Keep lying to yourself, then.”
“I thought you were going to ream me out for missing her birthday. Who is our contact at Hermes?”
“Mas, if she didn’t want flowers, she will lose her shit over a Birkin. She’s down to earth, a lady of simple pleasures who values time and presence over flowers and presents.”
I scoff, eyes roaming to a large art bag leaning against the exposed brick wall. “What’s that portfolio thing?”
“This?” he says, gesturing to the only portfolio in the room with us. Yes, Trystan, that. “When you are in a better, clearer headspace, look inside. What is in there will blow your fucking mind.”
The pain around my temple mimics Dave Grohl in his Nirvana drumming days. Everything aches, and the rest is fuzzy. Blinking repeatedly, I can’t seem to get anything to focus. Light fixtures and wall decorations swim in and out annoyingly as I get a handle on what I’m looking at. How does Caitlin deal with this?
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, glad you could join us.” I can barely make out the outline of a figure leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over a broad chest.
“Trys?”
“Yes, sweetheart, were you expecting Tom Holland?”
“If he’s here, send him through. Thanks.” Far out, my entire face is screaming.
“No Tom Holland, no Henry Cavill, sorry. Just me and Mas.” Wait, what?
As finer focus returns to my vision, I see pewter walls stretching up to a high ceiling. Is that twenty feet high? Heavy drapes in charcoal or navy block out all but a sliver of sunlight. I don’t have dark drapes…
“You’re at the penthouse. We brought you straight from the hospital. Do you remember?”
The hospital. Of course I remember; I was mugged, not lobotomized. My hand touches what must be a baseball-sized swelling around my eye, making me wince.
“You are still insanely beautiful. Under all that black and purple, of course.”
“She’s awake?” Mason’s panicked shout echoes down the corridor.
“She is,” Trystan replies softly, his mouth curling into the most adorable grin. “I’ll make some coffee now that Sleeping Beauty has awoken. You want a second cup?”
His voice drifts and diminishes. Caught in the chamber of the enormous living room.
