Tristan Caldwell had always prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize. To keep his emotions locked away, tucked into neat little boxes he rarely opened. That was how he’d survived the aftermath of the Olympics—the scandal, the whispers, the endless questions that he refused to answer. He was a master of detachment, a skill honed over years of competitive skiing where only the most ruthless made it to the top.

But as he sat in the conference room, nursing a cup of what could only be described as the worst coffee he’d ever tasted, Tristan found himself wondering why he bothered. It’s swill, he thought, grimacing as he swallowed another sip. I didn’t claw my way to the top of this sport just to suffer through bad coffee.

He was about to set the cup down in disgust when the door at the far end of the room opened. His grip tightened as Seraphina Monroe came in, guided by an administrator. Who shouldn't be here after he blinded her with acid.

Tristan’s stomach clenched, and the bitter coffee in his mouth turned to acid. He spat it out, not caring that it splattered across the polished table.

For a moment, all he could hear was her voice from five years ago. The screaming, the endless why, why, why as she cried out in disbelief. He had shattered her life with one decision, one moment of reckless bitterness, and now she was here, looking at him with those same eyes that had once begged for an explanation he could never give.

She didn't know he was here, her expression unreadable. But Tristan could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a mix of shame and anger he hadn’t felt in years rising to the surface. He needed to get a grip, needed to regain control. He was Tristan Caldwell, after all, and he didn’t lose.

He wiped his mouth, forcing a smirk onto his face as he locked eyes with Seraphina. "Guess they’re still using the same coffee they served us back in the day," he drawled, his voice dripping with forced nonchalance. "Except now, it’s aged like fine wine—gone sour, like you!"