Chapter 9
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Bianca’s POV
If I didn’t pick up soon, I was sure Russell would call the police. So, I answered, and his voice came through right away, full of
worry.
“Maisie, are you alright? Are you safe?”
Before I could reply, Tristan grabbed the phone from my hand, eyes cold and intense. “Russell, I’m with my wife, and we’re just fine. No need for you to worry.” He ended the call right there and slipped my phone into his pocket.
Then he turned to me, forcing a soft smile, and took my hand like he was holding on to a fragile thing. “Bianca, it’s been so long since we were together. Let’s not let anyone else get in between us now, alright?”
Over the next few days, Tristan brought out a big box, carefully pulling out memories.
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from our past–one by one. There was the bracelet I’d made him by hand, love letters from our school days, even the torn photograph I’d left behind. He’d pieced it back together, restoring every fragment like he was hoping to put us back together, too. He tried everything, digging up all these memories to spark something in me.
But I just sat there, watching him. Unmoved.
Finally, he looked at me, eyes red and searching. “Bianca, don‘ t look at me like that. Just…just give me something. Please?”
But my heart felt as empty as it had the day I left. What did he expect from me? After all that happened, I couldn’t make myself feel something that just wasn’t there
anymore.
Shaking my head, I looked away. “Tristan, I don’t get it. If you loved me so much, why’d you go after Sabrina? Was it true what they say that after seven years, the
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magic just…fades? If that’s the case, then why lie to me about it?”
He pulled me close, holding on like he could keep me if he just held tight enough.
“Bianca, I know I was wrong… Sabrina was nothing, just a fling. She didn’t mean anything to me, not even like a plaything. I’ve cut all ties with her, made sure she paid for what she did. Bianca, please, just give me another chance.”
But I only felt drained. “Tristan, it’s time to let go.”
He staggered back a step, eyes full of pain. We stood there in silence, the weight of our past between us.
Eventually, he gave up and said he’d go make something for us to eat. I remembered the early days when he‘ d cook for me. I used to tease him, saying,
“A CEO in the kitchen? Seems like a waste of talent.” Back then, he‘ d laugh and say,
“Well, it’s my honor to serve my wife.”
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Thinking back on it didn’t bring me any warmth now–just a strange kind of irony.
Half an hour later, he laid out a spread of my old favorites: salmon, braised beef, glazed pork. But I couldn’t find any appetite. Gently, he ladled soup into a bowl for me, but when I didn’t move to eat, his face grew dark.
“Bianca, why won’t you look at me? Is it…is it because you‘ ve fallen for someone else?”
His voice was cold as a winter wind, and I felt a shiver. Not wanting to provoke him more, I quietly picked up the bowl and drank the soup. Seeing me eat softened his expression, and he seemed relieved like he’d won something. He sat beside me, explaining every dish, talking to me as if nothing had changed.
But then, the doorbell rang, loud and
insistent.
My heart skipped a beat. Could it be
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Russell?
Tristan’s face hardened. “That Blake guy -haunting us like a ghost, isn’t he?”
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