Tristan stepped away from the car, adjusting the cuff of his crisp navy jacket, the epitome of calm confidence. The streetlight caught the glint of his watch, but he didn't move closer. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world.
"I'm not Adam," he said smoothly, his tone disarming but respectful. "And I'm not here to defend him."
Sofia crossed her arms. "Then what are you here for? Pity? Damage control? A bribe wrapped in a polite smile?"
Tristan gave a short laugh. "Tempting, but no. I'm not that good of an actor."
She narrowed her eyes, refusing to budge. "Then say what you need to say so I can go inside and forget you ever knocked on my life."
He nodded once, unfazed. "Fair. My name's Tristan Wolfe. Adam's...unfortunate best friend."
"Unfortunate for who?" she snapped. "Because so far, your presence isn't exactly improving my day."
He grinned, completely unfazed. "Unfortunate for both of us, I guess. But I'm not here to play messenger boy or corporate clean-up crew. I came because..." He hesitated, then shrugged, voice lowering. "Because someone has to clean up the emotional grenade your almost-husband dropped in a courtroom."
Sofia blinked, thrown by his honesty.
"You think this is funny?" she asked, one eyebrow arched as her lips pressed into a tight line.
"I think this whole thing is a spectacular disaster," Tristan admitted, raising both brows.
"And I think you have every right to hate every one of us. Hell, I might hate us too if I were in your shoes."
Sofia studied him, looking for any trace of mockery. But all she found was an easy charm layered over something quieter—something sincere. She hated that it disarmed her.
"So?" she said warily. "What now? A half-baked apology written by his legal team?"
"Nope," Tristan replied, pulling a small white envelope from his inner jacket pocket. "Just a letter. From him. Written with a lot of pride swallowed and too much whiskey."
She didn't take it.
"You don't have to read it. Rip it up, light it on fire, and feed it to the stray cats—totally up to you. I'm just the guy delivering it. But I also wanted to talk to you... to apologize on his behalf."
Sofia sighed, arms still crossed, but her lips twitched—just barely.
"I'm still not forgiving him."
Tristan smirked. "Wouldn't respect you if you did. But... maybe don't shoot the florist."
She rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
Tristan tilted his head, softer now. "You don't have to trust him yet. I'm not sure I do either. But I do know this—he's miserable. Which, to be honest, is kind of a refreshing change."
Sofia snorted despite herself.
Tristan grinned wider. "And there it is. A crack in the ice queen's armor. Don't worry—I won't tell."
She finally reached for the letter, her fingers brushing his. "I still don't like you."
Tristan bowed slightly. "That's fair. But give it time. I'm annoyingly likable."
"You may leave now," Sofia said coldly, crossing her arms as the wind tousled the edges of her hair. Her voice was clipped, her expression unreadable.
But Tristan didn't budge. He just gave her an easy smile and shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat.
"I'm not leaving until you invite me in for a cup of coffee," he said like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Then you'd better grow roots and enjoy the view. Because I don't invite strangers into my house—especially ones affiliated with... him."
Tristan tilted his head, completely unoffended. "Fair. But technically, I'm not a stranger anymore. I brought you a letter, endured your death glare, and haven't tried to convince you to forgive Adam. That has to count for something."
Sofia stared at him, unimpressed.
He tried again. "Come on. I heard your coffee is legendary. Don't make me beg in front of your neighbors. It's undignified."
"Good," she snapped. "Maybe you and Adam could both use a little humility."
Tristan grinned wider. "That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me all week."
She turned sharply and marched toward the front door, muttering under her breath. But she paused just before unlocking it. Without turning around, she said, "One cup. You get one cup, and then you leave."
"That's all I need," he said brightly, following her up the steps like a puppy who had just been tossed a bone.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. Half-packed boxes lined the hallway, remnants of a life Sofia was trying to hold together.
She disappeared into the kitchen, her back to him as she busied herself with the coffee machine. The silence stretched, broken only by the low hiss of boiling water.
"Nice place," Tristan offered, leaning against the wall.
"It's not mine anymore," she said quietly, without turning around. "They're taking it in two days."
Something in her tone made Tristan sober.
"You don't deserve any of this," he said softly.
She placed two mugs on the small table and finally looked at him—really looked at him.
"You know what I hate most about all of this?" she said, sliding a mug toward him. "It's not that Adam humiliated me in front of a judge. Not that he acted like I was some defective product in his perfectly polished life."
Tristan watched her carefully.
"It's that he sent me flowers afterward. As if that erased anything. As if he could toss a little charm over the wound and I'd come running." She took a deep breath, fingers curling around the ceramic. "You know what that makes me feel like?"
He didn't answer.
"An afterthought," she finished.
"My ex replaced me, and now a billionaire thinks he can snap his fingers and I'll forget how he broke me in front of an entire room of strangers."
Tristan set down his mug. "I'm not going to pretend to know what that felt like. But I do know Adam's an idiot. He's also prideful, wounded, and dangerously good at pushing away the things he doesn't know how to handle."
Sofia laughed bitterly. "Sounds like a dream husband."
Tristan smiled, but there was something sad in it. "He doesn't know how to love in a way that doesn't come with conditions. But I think—" He paused, choosing his words. "I think you scare the hell out of him."
She blinked, caught off guard. "Me?"
"You're not part of his world. You're real. He doesn't know what to do with real."
Silence again.
Sofia stared into her cup. Then, slowly, she stood.
"You can finish your coffee. Then you need to go." Her voice was steady but final.
Tristan rose too but didn't argue. He just nodded.
At the door, she stopped him with one last glance.
"I will never marry Adam Ravenstrong," she said clearly. "Not after what he's done. Not even if he brings me a thousand flowers or begs on his knees."
Tristan gave her a long, unreadable look, then smiled—gentle and genuine.
"Then I'll tell him to stop practicing his speech," he said lightly. "But... between us? I don't think he's giving up."
He stepped out into the night, and for the first time in a long time, Sofia wasn't sure how to feel.
Sofia was in the middle of taping shut another moving box when the front door creaked open.
Anne and Elise stepped inside, their expressions pale, tense, and far too quiet. They didn't need to speak—Sofia knew something was wrong the moment they entered. The air shifted.
She straightened slowly, wiping the dust from her hands. "What happened?" she asked, her voice wary.
Neither answered right away. Instead, Anne glanced at Elise, who pulled out her phone with a reluctant sigh.
"You need to see this," Elise said, her voice laced with anger.
Sofia's stomach dropped. "See what?"
Anne bit her lip. "It's on social media. Everywhere. You're... you're trending."
Elise handed the phone to Sofia, and her heart skipped a beat at the screen.
It was a post from Carla's account.
A photo—the bouquet she had thrown in the trash, card still attached, crushed petals scattered around the bin like confetti from a bad joke.
And beneath the image, Carla's caption blazed in bold text:
"When the office's drama queen stages a fake love story with a billionaire just to get back at her ex. Proof? A bouquet in the trash and a cringey little love note. This is what rock bottom looks like, girls."
The comments section was already exploding.
"This can't be real... is she for real?"
"She used Adam Ravenstrong's name?! What a psycho."
"I'd fake my death before faking a man like that."
"Delusional girls like her ruin it for the rest of us."
"I'd gladly take her place for one night with Adam..."
Sofia didn't say anything. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen.
Anne placed a hand on her shoulder gently. "Sofia... the card. People think you wrote it yourself."
Elise added, "It's gotten over two million views. In an hour. It's everywhere."
Sofia stared blankly, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The words blurred as her vision swam. Still, she didn't cry. But it felt like a scream was building inside her chest, trapped under every cruel comment.
Sofia had never competed with Carla. Never tried to win John back. She didn't beg. Didn't fight.
She simply stepped aside—quietly, painfully—and let them have each other.
And yet Carla wasn't satisfied. She had John. She had the ring. She had the spotlight.
But still... she wanted to crush Sofia beneath her heel.
Like Sofia's mere existence was offensive. Like she needed to be punished for not falling apart loudly enough.
Sofia had taken it all—the betrayal, the whispers, the stares—with her chin up and her mouth shut. She swallowed her heartbreak in silence and stitched her pride together with trembling hands.
But even dignity had its breaking point. Because now Carla wasn't just flaunting a stolen fiancé. Now she was going after what little Sofia had left—her name. Her truth. Her sanity.
All for what? For viral clicks? A twisted sense of victory?
Sofia stood in the center of the chaos Carla had created, not a single cruel word spoken from her lips—and still, she was the villain in Carla's story. The delusional girl with a fake card. A fake romance. A fake life.
But they didn't know the real story. They only saw what Carla wanted them to see.
Sofia closed her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. She felt pathetic—like a joke painted in tragedy and draped in rumors. But even in that helplessness, something stubborn inside her refused to break.
If they wanted her to fall apart, they'd have to wait. She'd been hurt. She'd been humiliated. But she was still standing.