I remembered how someone had vandalized Hillary's grave. The Gibson family had stormed over and forced me to confess. Tristan never asked a single question—he protected me fiercely. The Gibson family insisted on punishing me; he spent three days and nights finding the true culprit.
I ran my fingers over his tired, bloodshot eyes and asked, "Why did you believe me back then?"
He cupped my face and smiled. "You're the one I love most. If I don't believe you, who will I believe?"
After that, he never visited Hillary's grave again. I once thought I had finally stepped into his heart. I never imagined that all that unwavering protection had been an act from the start.
I found the first-aid kit and cleaned the wound on my back as best I could. Just as I was about to book a hotel, my phone pinged with a security alert: abnormal activity on the surveillance feed. Compelled, I opened the app.
The camera showed the nursery we'd once so carefully decorated. Tristan and Hillary were there—disheveled, and intimate.
Hillary slyly twined his restless fingers and murmured, "My father's heart transplant can't wait any longer..."