Tristan Davis had traded his usual business attire for something more laid-back—a

soft gray hoodie and pale joggers that hugged his frame. From a distance, he could have passed for a college kid brimming with youthful energy. He ran a hand through his hair as he glanced in the mirror, pushing his fringe back to reveal the sharp arch of his brow.

Behind him, Cynthia Rivera stood tense and miserable, her eyes wary as she watched him. "Where are you going?" she asked, her voice edged with suspicion.

Tristan didn't look at her. He made his way to the front door and bent to pull on a pair of sneakers from the shoe rack. "Work," he replied, his tone clipped.

Cynthia frowned, not buying it for a second. "That's not true. Steven said you're not working right now. So where exactly are you going?"

Her eyes darted anxiously as she pressed further, almost frantic. "Are you lying to me? Are you going to meet some other woman? Is that it?"

Tristan finished lacing his shoes, straightening up with a resigned, almost cold detachment in his eyes. "It's none of your business. Just stay here and wait- someone will come to take you home."

His hand was already on the doorknob when Cynthia's voice suddenly rose in panic. "Don't!"

She stepped in front of him and, arms outstretched, blocked his path. "Tristan, I don't want you to go. Can't you just stay here with me?"

Her eyes shone with unshed tears, her voice trembling, heartbreakingly vulnerable. "Please, Tristan, don't leave. Stay with me. Please?"

Tristan's expression darkened. He brushed her arms aside, lowering his voice. "Don't make a scene."

But Cynthia clung to him, face buried against his chest, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as tears finally spilled over. "Tristan, do you really not care about me? We grew up together. You always looked out for me everyone says so! Even Alex told me you treat me differently than anyone else. When I was sick, you were always the one who took care of me. When my parents weren't around, you were there. I know you care about me. It has to be those women outside-don't trust them, Tristan. They're just trying to take you away—"

Her grip tightened as she rambled on, voice muffled by sobs. "I thought you liked me. I always thought we'd get married one day. Steven, your parents—they all like me. Tristan, please, don't treat me like this. I can't stand it."

Tristan's brow furrowed in frustration.

Her words tumbled out, broken by tears and barely coherent, but he understood enough. He knew what she was trying, desperately, to say.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, gently but firmly trying to push her away. Cynthia only clung tighter, refusing to budge. Tristan hesitated, mindful of both her fragile state and her health—he couldn't bring himself to force her off.

Face pressed against his chest, Cynthia choked out, "Don't push me away. I'm not letting you go."

His voice grew stern. "Cynthia, stop this. You're making things worse."

"I'm not causing trouble," she whimpered, tears streaking her cheeks. "Don't be angry at me."

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched. "I'm going to count to three. If you're still holding on after that, I won't be so gentle."

Cynthia only held on tighter, shaking her head in defiance. "I'm not letting go."

"Three..." Tristan began.

"Two..."

"Don't," Cynthia pleaded, her voice raw.

Suddenly, she yanked him toward her with surprising strength, slamming her back hard against the door.

Tristan let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. "Cynthia, what are you—"

But his words were cut off, the moment hanging in abrupt, breathless silence.