Page 21 of The Billionaire’s Betrayal (Billionaires of Paris #2)

EVA

Tristan hadn't been himself since his trip to New York.

I noticed a subtle change in him. In the evenings, he came home at reasonable hours and didn't fail to send me a text when he was running late, but his mind seemed elsewhere.

Nothing very obvious, but it was there. He, who was generally calm and self-possessed, began to show signs of impatience, frustration.

A new tension inhabited his gestures, his silences.

And I feared I knew the reason for this change.

"What's bothering you, Tristan?" I asked gently. "You're quiet, completely distracted. I feel like something's eating at you..."

I hoped he would talk to me, that he would admit his attraction to Audrey, because then he would no longer be in denial.

If he agreed to confide in me, we could face it together.

I wanted him to trust us to overcome this ordeal.

Because that's all it was, a trial. A passing crisis that we could get through if only we remained united.

I wanted him to fight for us, but he did none of that.

"It's nothing, just fatigue, don't worry," he replied, giving me a slightly forced smile.

But this situation had been going on for days, and I refused to let him continue burying his head in the sand.

I had begun to hear gossip at the office.

People whispered that Audrey and he were growing closer, that there was likely something going on, that Tristan was completely smitten.

Each rumor was a blow to my heart and my ego.

He had refused to make our relationship official, yet he was openly associating with his assistant.

This situation was weighing on me more and more.

Tonight, I wanted answers.

"Stop dodging, Tristan," I pressed him. "It's not just a question of fatigue, I know that. There's something else. Tell me what?"

I thought I glimpsed a flash of frustration in his eyes. And then, suddenly, his reaction erupted, brutal.

"Since when have you become so clingy?" he snapped. "Are you doing this on purpose or what? Let me breathe. You're suffocating me!"

I remained petrified, breathless from the violence of his words. This sudden anger, this burst of impatience... I had never seen him like this. He rose abruptly and left the room, leaving me alone, helpless, with the feeling that something had just irrevocably broken between us.

Tristan became increasingly distant. He had stopped making love to me, and the "I love yous" he once offered no longer crossed his lips.

I knew professional stress was weighing on him, but it was deeper than that.

He was emotionally detaching from me, and I watched it happen, powerless, unable to reach him, as if an invisible wall had been erected between us.

They say love can overcome anything, but that's a lie. Love is a battle fought by two, and when one gives up, the other can only watch their story sink. My attempts to reach him ran up against his silence, each rebuff digging the gap between us a little deeper.

As the days passed, a terrifying thought crept into me: what if this battle was already lost from the start?

At the office, I kept my head high. I led meetings, made decisions, played my role as CEO with the confidence expected of me.

But in the evening, once our front door closed, the mask fell.

I sank into a lethargy from which nothing seemed able to pull me.

I had never felt so vulnerable, so close to the edge.

The worst was seeing the woman I was becoming.

The one I met in the mirror was a stranger to me: suspicious, bitter, consumed by a jealousy that ate at me like acid.

The mere sight of Audrey was now enough to trigger a deep rage in me, a primitive anger that threatened to explode at the slightest of her smiles.

To keep my emotions under control, I began taking boxing lessons with a private coach. It didn't take long for him to understand the extent of my rage. During our first session, after a few minutes of shadow boxing, he stopped the timer and observed me for a long time.

"Looks like you've got a lot to unload, right?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I hit the bag with even more force.

"Okay, fine. Today, we're going to get serious," he said with a smile.

He adjusted my gloves, stood in front of me, and without warning, gave me a light tap on the shoulder. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to provoke. I looked at him, surprised.

"Hit me."

"What?!" I stammered.

"Hit me. Get out what you have in there," he insisted, pointing to my chest. "Otherwise, it'll end up eating you from the inside."

That was exactly how I felt. I gave him a dark look, then I lunged at him. My fists flew, each blow accompanied by a cry of rage. He blocked skillfully, sometimes dodged, but never allowed himself to be disconcerted.

"That's it! Free yourself. Keep going!" he shouted over the noise of my strikes.

At the end of the session, I collapsed, out of breath, with trembling legs and burning arms. But for the first time in a long time, I felt something release inside me. As if this black rage that had been oppressing me for weeks had dissipated, if only for a moment.

"See you tomorrow?" I asked, almost pleading.

"Of course, but remember: you don't come here just to fight. You come to find yourself," he replied softly, handing me a bottle of water.

And so boxing became my outlet, my means of survival against the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me.