Page 49 of Mountain Summons

And it hurt. It hurt because she hadn’t expected it, and also because she hadn’t realized, until now, how badly she needed to hear it.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “Dad…”

He lifted a hand. “It might be my one regret in life. But I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

She stiffened.

“This job… the risks he takes, the life he leads,” her father continued, his voice even softer now. “I know what this life does to a person, and to the people who love them.”

Lena’s breath hitched. He was talking about her. He was talking about her mom. Her mom had lived this life—waiting, always waiting. For her husband to come home, knowing that some day he might not.

And afterwards, Lena had spent years pretending the experience hadn’t changed her. But ithadchanged her. She’d built her entire adult life around making sure she was never the one waiting for someone who might never come home.

And then?—

She thought of Tristan’s touch, of the way his lips pressed against her shoulder in the middle of the night, when he thought she was asleep.

“I understand, Papa. I understand, and I’m not going to lie and say I don’t worry about the same thing. But I don’t need you to protect me,” she said finally, quietly. “Not from him.”

Her father studied her carefully.

“I just want you to be happy, Madou.”

20

Tristan

The noise was suffocating.

The vast hall of Basel’s ChronoLuxe Expo hummed with chatter, laughter, and the subtle clink of champagne glasses. Men in tailored suits and women in elegant dresses weaved through the crowd with effortless grace.

All Tristan wanted to do was run away.

The only thing anchoring him was Lena’s hand in his.

Lena, whose touch wasn’t as sure as it’d been a few minutes earlier, when they’d first walked inside. But she stood close to him—so close that he could feel the warmth of her body against his side, the soft brush of her arm every time he shifted slightly. Every once in a while, her fingers squeezed his, her touch subtle, grounding.

"You okay?" he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

"I’m fine," she replied.

Their gazes met. Something in her hazel eyes softened. And just like that, the chaos around him faded—just for a second.

Before she could press further, an elegant voice cut through the crowd.

"Ah! Tristan!"

His gut tightened.

His father.

Amaury Devallé.

Tristan turned just in time to see him approaching, effortlessly commanding the room. Even at sixty, Amaury was an imposing figure, all sharp features, salt-and-pepper hair, dark eyes that seemed to see everything, and an air of absolute authority. He wore a perfectly tailored jacket with a cashmere turtleneck underneath. A man at the top of his game, perfectly at ease in this world.

“Good to see you, son,” his father said, clasping a firm hand on Tristan’s shoulder before his gaze flicked to Lena.

“And you must be Lena,” his father continued, the sharp edge in his expression softening slightly. “It’s a pleasure.”

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