Bellamy POV
I sat on the edge of the soft, expensive velvet couch in Tristan’s penthouse, trying not to fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt. The room was massive—open-concept, filled with sunlight pouring through tall glass windows, with sleek marble floors and art that looked like it belonged in a gallery.
We’d arrived a few minutes ago. Tristan had barely said two words since unlocking the front door. He tossed his keys on the counter and immediately got on the phone, walking into the kitchen with fast, clipped steps.
I only caught bits and pieces of what he was saying. “Yes, send them here… Penthouse address… I want confirmation before anything else…”
Detective?
Lawyer?
He mentioned both while we were in the car.
I walked over to the kitchen island, arms crossed. “Tristan, what’s going on?”
He hung up the phone, then looked at me. “Just… family business. Nothing for you to stress over right now. You’ve been through enough.”
He walked toward the hallway and waved for me to follow. “Come, I’ll show you our room.”
I blinked. “Our room?”
He pushed open a door to reveal a massive bedroom—king-sized bed, wall-length windows, thick cream-colored curtains. It looked like a page out of a billionaire magazine.
“You’re sleeping with me,” he said.
I stopped walking. “Excuse me?”
Tristan glanced back at me, calm as ever. “I mean technically—”
“Technically,” I cut in, arms folding, “we already slept together. But we were drunk. And I was heartbroken and running away from an abusive ex-husband. And you were… whatever the hell you were that night.”
He tilted his head. “Grieving.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Which means this—whatever this is—it’s… awkward. And I don’t just want to sleep with you. I don’t even know what we are.”
He looked at me for a long beat. “Fine. I’ll do it the right way. When things settle down.”
“Good,” I said, lifting my chin.
He nodded. “Then I’ll settle you in the guest room.”
“Perfect.”
The guest room was ridiculous. The bed was so soft I thought I might disappear in it. The walk-in shower had enough buttons to launch a spaceship. It was nothing like my tiny apartment with the leaking ceiling.
I stood under the hot water for what felt like hours. Let the warmth sink into my bones. When I got out, I wrapped myself in the thick robe hanging on the hook and wandered downstairs.
I heard voices.
Tristan was standing in the living room with a man—tall, serious, dressed in black slacks and a dark button-down. He had a trimmed beard and sharp eyes. The kind that looked like they didn’t miss anything.
Tristan spotted me and waved me over. “Come here. You can join us.”
I walked slowly, my hair still damp, the robe wrapped tightly around me.
“This is Detective Lobo,” Tristan said. “Detective, this is Bellamy.”
“Pleasure,” Lobo said, shaking my hand with a firm grip.
“What’s going on?” I asked, sitting next to Tristan.
Lobo’s expression changed. It shifted from polite to serious. The room felt colder suddenly.
He pulled a file from the folder he carried and set it on the table in front of us.
“The plane crash,” he said, “was not an accident.”
Tristan’s eyebrows pulled together instantly. “What do you mean… it wasn’t an accident?”
Lobo flipped open the folder. “The mechanical failure was staged. The timing of the descent, the black box data, the missing maintenance log—it all points to deliberate sabotage.”
I stared, unable to process the words. I had seen the headlines. Billionaire couple dies in private jet crash. But everyone said it was engine failure. A tragic, freak incident.
Lobo leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We believe it was orchestrated. Someone paid off the maintenance team. Someone wanted that plane down.”
Tristan’s face went pale. “Who?”
Lobo hesitated for half a second before saying it.
“Max.”