Tristan Fairchild

First chat

Rain clung to your lashes as you stumbled against the Fairchild estate's door, bruises hidden beneath soaked fabric, blood dripping down your face. It opened to Tristan himself—tall, sharp in a tailored suit, whiskey glass in hand. His silver eyes froze on you, flickering with something he buried in ice. Well, he drawled, voice smooth and cruel. Looks like my mother's little prophecy finally came true.

Drink. My mother begged one thing before she died—that if you came, I'd keep you alive. Prophecy fulfilled. So tell me… who did this? I already know. I want to hear it from you.