Tristan was pacing like a confused puppy in the study, eyes fixed on the floor, thoughts scattered like fallen leaves. Unfortunately for him, the silence didn't last.
A cold voice, all sharp edges and polite loathing, cut through the air.
"And who told you that?"
Tristan flinched like he'd been caught cheating on a test. He looked up, all wide eyes and wounded dignity.
"Brother, Olivia told me," he said, as if that alone should be carved into stone. "You don't know, but… she suffered. A lot. Because of Melisa."
Ah, the classic Olivia sympathy tour. Step one: cry. Step two: accuse. Step three: make everyone else look like trash for not joining her pity parade.
"She told me about that art competition in college. The one Melisa won?" Tristan pressed on, eager now. "That painting wasn't even hers! Olivia worked on it for a month, and Melisa… just took it."
He looked so proud, like he'd just solved world hunger.
Leonard raised an eyebrow. That was it. Just one eyebrow. But somehow it was louder than Tristan's entire speech.
"Oh?" Leonard said coolly. "And she told you this now? After all these years? Strange she never told her parents. Or the professors. Or, I don't know… the entire art committee?"
Tristan stiffened. That part hadn't occurred to him.
"She… she probably didn't want to hurt her sister," he mumbled. "She's always been too kind for her own good."
Leonard's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. More like amusement soaked in acid.
"Mm. Too kind to tell anyone else. But apparently not too kind to tell you. Curious, isn't it?"
Tristan looked like someone had popped his favorite balloon. "It's not like that! This time Melisa crossed the line. Olivia was crying—really crying, not fake—and in that moment, she let it slip. Afterward, she begged me not to tell anyone, so I didn't… until now."
His voice rose with frustration. "You barely even know Melisa, Brother. But I know Olivia. She's sweet, and caring, and—"
"Enough."
Leonard's voice was a blade. Clean, merciless.
"If you're done wasting my time, you can leave."
"But—"
"I said leave."
Tristan's fists clenched. He looked like he wanted to throw something—or cry. Probably both. But Leonard's expression was immovable.
So Tristan spun around, stalking toward the door. At the threshold, he delivered his final gem of wisdom:
"If you don't divorce her now, she'll cling to you like a leech."
Click.
The door closed.
Leonard leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. A muscle twitched near his jaw.
If only she wanted to leech off me, he thought grimly. But she's counting the days to get away.
He stood after a long pause and headed upstairs.
—
Melisa was brushing her hair when he entered the room. Slow, unhurried strokes, like she had all the time in the world—and none of it was for him.
Typical.
"Do you know what Tris said to me?" he asked, leaning against the doorway.
She turned slightly, calm as moonlight. "Let me guess. Something tragic about how Olivia cries diamonds and I steal dreams for breakfast?"
His brows furrowed. "You really don't care?"
"Leonard, I've been accused of murder before. A painting theft doesn't even make top ten." She lay down, eyes fluttering shut like the conversation was a lullaby.
Leonard stepped closer, studying her. "You're not curious what he said?"
"Do I look curious?"
"You're not even going to deny it?"
Melisa opened one eye lazily. "Should I hold a press conference? Maybe get a lie detector test? Oh wait—wouldn't matter. You'll believe whatever fits your mood anyway."
There it was. That sharp, dry tone. The kind of voice that built walls faster than armies ever could.
He frowned. "What if I don't believe him?"
Silence.
That irritated him more than any insult would have.
So she didn't care if he believed her. Didn't even try to defend herself. And why would she? When had anyone listened?
He watched her roll over and pull the blanket up, like this entire interaction had been a mild inconvenience—like he wasn't standing there, unraveling.
He turned away and went to the sofa. Again.
She slept soundly tonight. No nightmares. No tossing. Just soft, steady breathing.
Leonard stared at the ceiling.
What do you want from me? he wondered.
He told himself he didn't care. That he was long over her. That this marriage meant nothing.
But tonight, he realized something terrifying.
He didn't want her to defend herself because he doubted her.
He wanted her to fight because it would mean she still cared what he thought.
And she didn't.
She didn't need his approval. Didn't flinch under his silence. Didn't run after him begging to be believed.
She just lay there.
Indifferent.
Untouched.
Unreachable.
And somehow, that hurt more than any lie ever could.
He let out a soft, bitter laugh, barely a breath.
Pathetic, he thought.
So much for being over her.