One Reckless Decision

Not in front of Peter. She had never broken down in front of Peter. Not even when he used his hands.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, with admirable calm. From a distance, she thought, she might even look calm, while inside she thought she might already have died.

“You had to pick out the one man alive who could make our situation worse! We will be the laughingstock of Europe!” Peter hissed. “I knew this would happen—I told you this would happen! You selfish, irresponsible—”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Tristanne heard herself saying, with fight and spirit that felt completely foreign to her. As if she cared about Peter, or, perhaps, it was that she no longer cared at all, about anything. “I am not the one who lost the family fortune.”

She heard her mother gasp in horror, but she could not tend to Vivienne just then. She could not even tend to herself. She could only sit there, her hands clenched in her lap, her dress stiff and uncomfortable all around her, trying to make sense of what was happening. What could not be happening. What was, it became clear with every passing second, really and truly happening after all.

He would not do this! something inside of her howled. Not after she had told him everything. Not after all that had passed between them. She thought of that archway in Florence—the way that he had held her then. The fierce, consuming way he had made love to her. So raw, so desperate. How could none of that be real?

Peter laughed, unpleasantly. “I hope you enjoyed your low-class love affair while it lasted, Tristanne. I hope it was worth the humiliation we will now face in front of the entire world! Our father must be turning over in his grave!”

“Something must have happened to him,” Tristanne said, but even she could not believe it at this point. Two hours and thirty-six minutes, and Nikos was not here. He was not coming. He was not coming. Though, in truth, she was still hoping. That he had been in a car accident, perhaps. His broken body in a hospital bed, and wouldn’t they all be so ashamed of their revolting speculation—

But then there was a commotion near the door, and one of his servants stood there, looking embarrassed. And she knew before he said a single word.

“I am so sorry, miss,” he said, not making eye contact, wringing his hands in front of him. “But Mr. Katrakis left this morning. He took the helicopter into Athens, and he has no plans to return.”

Tristanne got up then. It was that or simply collapse into herself. She launched herself to her feet, and moved away from the chair, looking desperately around the stark, white room as if something in it might calm her, or make this nightmare better somehow. He has no plans to return.

“What a surprise,” Peter snapped, advancing on her. His face was screwed up with rage, and that black hatred that had always emanated from him in waves. “He remembered that he is a Katrakis and you are a Barbery! Of course he could not marry you! Of course he chose instead to humiliate you! I should have expected this from the start!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she told Peter, through lips that felt numb. She wanted to scream, to run, to hide…but where on earth could she possibly go? Her old life in Vancouver? How could it possibly fit her now? How could she ever pretend she had not felt what she had felt, nor loved as she still loved, even now, in the darkest of moments? It was choking her. Killing her. And she had the strangest feeling that even should she survive the horror of this moment, what she felt would not diminish at all. She knew it in the exact same, bone-deep way that she had known that Nikos Katrakis would ruin her. She knew it.

“Did you think he wanted you, Tristanne?” Peter hissed. “Did you imagine he was sufficiently enamored of your charms? The only thing you had that Katrakis wanted was your name.”

“My name?” She felt as thick, as stupid, as Peter had always told her she was. “Why would he care about my name?”

“Because he loathes us all,” Peter threw at her. “He swore he would have his revenge on us ten years ago, and congratulations, Tristanne—you have handed it to him on a silver platter!”

“Peter, please,” Vivienne murmured then. “This is not the time!”

But Tristanne was watching her brother’s expression, and a prickle of something cold washed over her.

“What did you do?” she asked. Her fists clenched, as if she wanted to protect Nikos from Peter—but no, that could not be what she felt. She wanted to make sense of what was happening, that was all. There had to be a reason he had abandoned her—there had to be! “What did you do to him?”