Izzie doubted Tristan’s cool demeanor reflected his real mindset. As a kid, he hid vulnerabilities behind a stoic pretense. Back then, she always called his bluff. Then again, she was his confidant, the one person, besides his mom, Tristan would turn to in times of need.

She lost her safe haven status with him that night at Mark King’s house, when she trampled on Tristan’s heart, shattering his trust. She wasn’t sure she could read him all that well anymore. She hoped she was reading him wrong because the emotions she saw scared the shit out of her.

How can I mend this man if I’m the one who broke him?

Now she needed him whole and yet the moment she told him the truth about that night, it would wreck him all over again. Guilt and shame warred inside her, making her feel like she was standing on the edge of the highest cliff looking down. Izzie steeled herself and took the dreaded plunge.

She had to start somewhere, so she decided to go with the end. “I’m sorry.”

Tristan’s gaze bored into hers, yet she didn’t cower. She prayed he didn’t notice the slight twitch on her upper lip, or the vein throbbing in her neck. One perfect eyebrow lifted, and his eyes abandoned hers to focus on those exact spots.

Shit!

“That’s it?”

He was toying with her like a big cat with its prey. She could tell. His words sounded flat, but his lips curved in a mocking smirk, his blue eyes gleamed glacial sparks that burned her face and scorched her soul.

He went on. “After all these years, after the hell you put me through, that’s all you’ve got for me? You’re sorry?” He gasped and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, the pain that turned his blue stare into dark pools ripped her heart out. “You didn’t cheat on a test or cut the checkout line at a grocery store. You fucked my best friend at a party he was throwing for me. Mark was more than a father figure to me. He was my mentor. I got that record deal because of him. He threw that party to celebrate it, and because I told him I was going to propose to you.” Izzie’s stomach hit the floor as blood drained from her face. She never knew that. “I had a real shot with my own band. I wasn’t going to be ‘Mr. Izzie Anderson’ anymore. I wouldn’t be in your shadow as you preferred to keep me,” he whispered, tight-lipped. The ground vanished from under her feet. Tristan raised his voice when happy, and lowered it when disgusted. Or angry.

She shook her head, too overwhelmed to articulate a response. She never knew he felt that way about her success.

She found her voice. “That’s not true and you know it. I wouldn’t be anything without your support and your talent. You were never ‘Mr. Anderson’ to me. I told you a million times we were partners. I loved you, goddamn it.”

“If you truly loved me, you would’ve been faithful.” His voice dropped as his stare turned icy. He hopped off the table, bracing his hands on the armrests of her chair, looming over her, “If you truly loved me, I wouldn’t have sauntered into Mark’s bedroom in the middle of that party to find your lips wrapped around his cock, now, would I?”

Izzie racked her brain for an appropriate comeback and came up empty-handed. Stunned by the emotions his raw words revived, she shrugged. That snapped something inside Tristan. He held her upper arms, squeezing them against her body, pulling her from the chair. Normally, her head reached his chest, but she tiptoed as he pulled her up until his hot breath brushed against her cheeks. Her eyelids dropped to protect herself from the burning rage she witnessed in his eyes.

Tristan had never been violent toward her, he would never hurt any woman, but people change. Maybe, the damage she had caused him ran deeper that she imagined.

She winced and squinted her eyes, bracing herself for an assault.

It never came.

As fast as he had seized her, Tristan shoved her free. Disoriented, Izzie grabbed the chair for support as she reopened her eyes to find his back turned to her, hands splayed on the polished table top. Deep breaths came out of him fast and furious, tension etching the large expanse of his back.

In the past, snuggling against Tristan felt like heaven. Every time Izzie needed to hide from the evils of the world, Tristan’s warm chest welcomed her, soothing her pain away. His heartbeats used to be her favorite lullaby. Time and distance played a cruel trick on her, shrinking the true value of those precious moments. Stinging tears pricked the back of her eyes as she grasped the enormity of her loss.

She swallowed hard, she wasn’t a wimp.

She needed Tristan’s help.

Failure wasn’t an option.

Izzie squared her shoulders ready to reveal her reasons for reaching out to Tristan after all those years.

His next words killed her newfound courage. “I swear to God, I’ve never laid a finger on a woman. I abhor men who do,” he muttered without turning around to face her. “I refuse to let you steal that away from me as well. Leave.”

She choked at the vivid memories of Lilly Knight’s screams during her sleepovers at Tristan’s house. Izzie was four and Tristan was about six. She would sneak into his bedroom when the banging and shouting started at his mom’s room, crawling under the covers with him. He would hold her tight without saying a word. That silent reassurance comforted her into sleep. It wasn’t until much later in life that Izzie realized he was quiet because he was as terrified as she was.

The tears Izzie fought before now rolled down her cheeks. Humiliation and shame made them burn. She hesitated, trying to find a way to reason with him. She owed him the truth, at least the part of it she could offer. She had come to Brazil to set things straight.

Still not facing her, he growled, “Now.”

More than the rumbling sound of that single word, his glacial tone spurred her into action.

Dropping the hand she had raised to touch his tense shoulder, Izzie scuttled out of his office, leaving the door ajar. She darted through the crowded restaurant paying no heed to the heads that turned or the curious whispers that followed her. She didn’t care if people recognized her, took pictures or posted them on social media. She didn’t give a damn about any of that.

I’ve damaged him beyond repair.

She broke her heart when she broke his.

Neither would ever be whole again.

She didn’t stop until she reached the town car parked in front of the bistro. Hopping in, she shut the door and rested her head against the tinted window. As the driver pulled away and headed towards her hotel, she looked out of the window, but her eyes glazed over.

She had no tears.

Not anymore.

She felt empty.

Defeated.

* * *

Izzie appreciated the driver for a silent ride through the rain-washed streets, but it did nothing to calm her down. Disconnected scenes and fragmented memories clashed in her head. She shut her eyes and rubbed her forehead as if the gesture could erase years of suffering.

She had been clean for about a decade, but she recognized the emotions that could trigger a relapse. She fumbled inside her designer bag for her phone. Her sponsor’s number was the first one on the call log.

“What’s up, gorgeous?”

“I screwed it up big time. I told you this wouldn’t work.”

Jim Evans was old enough to be her grandfather, which put Izzie at ease around him and was essential for his positive influence. He also didn’t give a rat’s ass about her celebrity status. Having grown up as the troubled son of an unhinged, dysfunctional movie-star couple, Jim had seen Hollywood at its worst. No one surprised him. Nothing shocked him.

He was genuinely fond of Izzie though and became her sponsor when she started in the NA program. He had stuck by her side through struggles, small victories, and inevitable setbacks. His encouragement had helped Izzie move through the twelve steps.

“The ninth kicks your butt every time, kiddo. You’ll manage, though. You always do.”

“Making amends is just the starting point with Tristan. I didn’t even get to that.”

“You knew it wasn’t going to be easy.”

“I had hoped it wasn’t going to be this hard.”

“Chin up, Izzie. You can do this. Now backtrack a little. Tell me what happened from the beginning.”

She relayed to Jim the details of her meeting with Tristan. Every single embarrassing one. She never lied to her sponsor. That would defeat the purpose of having one in the first place. He hung on her words and coached whenever necessary. By the time she opened the door of the presidential suite she was in, Izzie was wrapping up the phone call.

“We might be thousands of miles apart, but I’m just a phone call away.”

“I know, and I appreciate you for it. It means a lot. Good night.”

When Izzie opened the minibar to get water, she eyeballed the miniature bottles of vodka, coveting the quick fix they promised. She grabbed a large bottle of Pellegrino and quickly shut the door.

Although her downfall had been cocaine, and resisting alcohol wasn’t normally a big deal for her, she was feeling way too crappy. Izzie knew better. Being clean meant abstaining from any kind of drugs, booze included. She poured the bubbly water into a tall glass and gulped down most of it, ambling to the opposite side of the living-room.

As the cool liquid soothed her dry throat, she gazed out the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors overlooking a dark bay. She opened them and stepped out, letting the night breeze wrap around her like a warm shawl. That was her first time in Florianópolis. When she had toured Brazil, she never played there. She was surprised to find a vibrant city sprawled across an island blessed by luxuriant nature, but one of the biggest revelations the city offered her was a Golden Gate-like bridge that connected Florianópolis to the main land. Tossing her head back to finish up the water, she contemplated the structure’s silhouette illuminated by fairy lights as the full moon shed a magical light down the bridge and the ocean.

Breathtaking.

And so peaceful.

Not at all the way she felt with a storm of conflicting emotions raging inside her head.

Her mission involved so much more than her feelings or Tristan’s.

She could not fail.

She would not fail.