The VVIP lounge of the Clubhouse was silent except for the low hum of the city far below and the occasional clink of ice in a glass.
Tristan sat alone in the dimly lit corner, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling as he stared at his phone screen the latest message from Ophelia confirming she had received the dress for tonight’s party.
His pale grey eyes narrowed slightly, a ghost of satisfaction flickering across his otherwise impassive face.
The door finally opened a few minutes opened and Nicholas strolled in with Riven at his side, both laughing about something trivial.
Nicholas dropped into the seat beside Tristan without invitation.
“What’s got you so focused on your phone?” Nicholas asked, nodding toward the phone.
“You have been staring at that thing as it owes you money.”
Tristan didn’t reply immediately.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.
“Nothing.”
He set the phone face down on the table.
Riven lounged across from them, ever the playful one, swirling a drink in his hand.
“Let him be, who knows he might have gotten a woman he is interested in,” Riven stated, but Tristen’s glare shut him up.
Tristan’s voice cut through, low and casual.
“How’s Ophelia holding up?” he asked.
Nicholas blinked, genuinely surprised.
Riven raised an eyebrow.
Tristan rarely asked about anyone’s personal affairs.
In the years they had all run in the same circles, Tristan had always been the shadow observing, controlling his empire, speaking only when necessary.
“Why the hell are you asking about Ophelia?” Nicholas laughed, leaning back.
“You have never cared about my relationships before. Hell, you barely speak unless it’s business.”
Before Tristan could answer, the door opened again.
The fabric was glittering with tiny crystals, more stripper than socialite.
It clung to her body like a second skin, the neckline plunging so low it left little to the imagination.
She moved straight to Nicholas, sliding onto his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Hey, baby,” she purred, kissing him deeply.
Tristan watched them, remembering the phone call he had overheard Nicholas mocking Ophelia, laughing at her desperate offer to become his mistress, the crazy fact that he wanted it now.
The memory stirred something dark and possessive in his chest.
“I had a question,” Tristan said flatly, stubbing out his cigarette.
Nicholas’s hand slid possessively over Liora’s exposed thigh.
“Shoot.”
“You said you can’t be with Ophelia anymore. That the one you love is Liora now.”
Nicholas smirked, squeezing Liora tighter.
“Exactly. Ophelia was once useful, brilliant, connected, and good for the image. But after her father’s mess and that pathetic breakdown? Who wants to deal with a woman who might collapse mid-fuck? Liora’s the real prize. Ophelia was just a stepping stone. Let her rot with her family’s scandals. She’s beneath us now.”
Liora laughed softly, flashing her engagement ring.
Tristan’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Anger, cold and flared beneath his calm exterior.
He controlled it perfectly, as always.
No one saw the storm.
He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his hard features.
“So this should be the last time anyone calls her down or drags her into your drama. She’s done with you.”
Nicholas shrugged.
“Fine by me. She was never going to be wife material anyway.”
Tristan stood up abruptly, “So that means, she is no longer yours right?” Nicholas could swear that word made fear creep into his heart, but he needed to hide that feeling.
“I need to leave. I have to get ready for the party tonight.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Aurelian Hall? Save me a drink if you see me.”
Tristan didn’t respond.
He walked out without another word, his footsteps echoing down the private corridor.
***
The moment he slid into the back of his Rolls-Royce, his assistant, Elias, closed the door smoothly.
“The dress and accessories have been delivered to Dr. Cater’s apartment, sir,” Elias reported.
“The car will pick her up at 8:30.”
Tristan nodded once, staring out the tinted window as the city blurred past.
In the quiet luxury of the car, his mind drifted.
Ophelia is mine now.
The thought settled deep in his chest, dark and possessive.
Seven long years.
Seven years of watching her smile at Nicholas, cling to him during her painful episodes, build her career while completely blind to the man who had wanted her from the moment she walked into their circle.
Seven years of waiting.
Now she belonged to him bound by contract, stripped of choice, and completely under his control.
No more Nicholas or delusions of love.
She would pay for every year she had ignored him.
For every time she had chosen that worthless bastard over what he could have given her.
A faint, cold smile touched Tristan’s lips as the car sped toward his penthouse.
“Ophelia is fully mine now, and I will show that motherfucker how a real man treats a woman who is worth every bit of love and care she needs.” he thought in his head.