I swallowed my rage until it choked me and watched him leave with Hillary. Around me, whispers pierced through me like knives.
"What a pathetic legitimate wife..."
"I heard she drugged him to climb into his bed when Hillary's plane crashed—how shameless!"
"Tristan went after Hillary so publicly back then—how could she insert herself?"
The room blurred, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was lying in our bedroom with an ice-cold towel on my forehead.
Tristan sat in the shadows, expressionless. When he saw I was awake, he lifted the bowl of broth from the bedside table and spooned a spoonful toward my mouth.
"Drink," he ordered. His movements were practiced, but his gaze held no warmth.
"Hillary and the baby are fine. This matter ends here. The funeral caused too much of a scene. I don't want unnecessary attention and speculation to shift to Hillary."
He leaned in, his voice low, laced with threat.
"My patience is limited. Cooperate, and your brother will receive the best treatment. Otherwise..."
His gaze cut through me, cold and merciless.
I stared at the man I once loved, and felt my heart die completely.