Tristan’s P.O.V

I stood at the massive gate of the Wilson estate, clutching a bouquet of fresh roses in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. My fingers were already cramping from holding them so tightly, but I didn't care. I didn’t come all the way here to complain about sore hands.

The guards had already told me I wasn’t expected, that I should leave, that Madam Sophia had made it clear she didn’t want visitors from the Harrison estate or the Bernard’s, ...