Chapter Four
1261 Words
**The Secrets He Buried**
I replayed the voicemail five times.
Each time, Professor Elena Black’s words cut deeper.
> *“It’s not just his career on the line anymore. It’s yours.”*
I sat frozen on the edge of the hotel bed, still wrapped in the scent of Rowan’s skin and the ache of the night before. My heart felt like it was being gripped by a fist I couldn’t shake off.
He was gone. Again.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Just that voice message hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.
I dressed quickly, my mind racing.
What could she know?
What could be worse than sleeping with my professor and nearly getting caught?
What if she already knew?
And worse—what if Rowan wasn’t the man I thought he was?
—
**2:30 PM — Coffee Bar Outside Campus**
Elena sat at a small table in the corner, sipping espresso like she owned the place.
She looked… relaxed. Too relaxed. Like a lion casually waiting for the kill.
I slid into the seat across from her.
“You said you had something to show me.”
She placed her cup down gently. “Yes. But first, I need to know something.”
I didn’t speak.
Her voice lowered. “Has Dr. Hart touched you… inappropriately?”
I flinched. “Define inappropriately.”
She smiled. “That’s a yes.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Fine. Then I’ll show you why you should’ve stayed far away from him.”
She slid a thin manila envelope across the table. My fingers hesitated before opening it.
Inside were three pages.
The first: A photograph of Rowan—much younger—standing beside a woman with dark hair and bright eyes. His arm was around her waist. They were laughing.
My stomach clenched.
“That’s his wife,” Elena said. “Was.”
The second photo: A newspaper clipping.
*“Professor’s Wife Found Dead in Apparent Suicide – Husband Under Scrutiny”*
No.
No. No. No.
My breath caught in my throat.
I skimmed the article. Words swam.
> *“Melissa Hart, 29, was found dead in her home by her husband, Rowan Hart…”*
> *“Police confirmed the presence of bruising and elevated levels of sedatives in her system.”*
> *“Though ruled a suicide, questions remain surrounding domestic tension and unreported abuse…”*
I couldn’t finish reading.
“Stop,” I whispered. “What is this?”
“Truth,” Elena said. “The truth the university covered up when they hired him. The truth he doesn’t want you to know.”
I shoved the envelope back. “This proves nothing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think I’m lying?”
“I think you’re bitter.”
She leaned in. “You think he’s the victim in all this? Let me be clear, Ivy. That woman—Melissa—came to me six months before she died. Crying. Bruised. Afraid of her husband. She told me things that still keep me up at night.”
I shook my head. “He would never—”
“You’ve known him for what? A few weeks? I knew him for years. I saw how he changed after Melissa died. He became colder. Harder. Detached. That man? That man can’t love. He only knows how to *control*.”
My hands were trembling.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, standing. “I *can’t* believe you.”
“Then ask him yourself,” she said, standing too. “But know this—I’ve submitted a formal complaint. An investigation is coming. And if you don’t protect yourself, you’ll go down with him.”
She walked away.
And just like that, the last piece of peace I had shattered into ash.
—
**Two Hours Later — Rowan’s Apartment**
I stood in front of his door, the manila envelope still clutched in my hand.
My chest hurt.
Everything I thought I knew was cracking beneath my feet.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked harder. Louder. Desperate.
Finally, the door creaked open.
He looked exhausted. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes hollow.
“Didn’t expect to see you.”
I stepped inside without asking. “We need to talk.”
“I figured,” he said, shutting the door behind me. “Elena’s been busy.”
“She gave me this.” I shoved the envelope into his hands.
He didn’t open it.
He didn’t need to.
“She told me about Melissa,” I said softly. “About what people think happened.”
He walked past me, dropped the envelope on the coffee table, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.
“I suppose you want the real story now?”
“Yes,” I said. “I deserve that.”
He sipped once, then set the glass down.
“I married Melissa when I was twenty-six. She was younger. Smart. Beautiful. But fragile. Bipolar, undiagnosed at the time. The highs were intoxicating, the lows… terrifying. She would vanish for days, lock herself in rooms, scream at shadows.”
He paused.
“I didn’t know how to help her. I made it worse. I tried controlling her moods, her behavior. I was arrogant. Thought I could fix her like she was a problem to be solved. But I only made her feel more alone.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“One night, we fought,” he continued. “She thought I was cheating. I wasn’t. But I’d stopped being present. I’d stopped being patient. That night, I said something I can never take back.”
“What did you say?”
He looked up at me, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t name.
> “I told her she was broken.”
The silence after that was heavy.
“She took sleeping pills. Didn’t wake up. I found her on the bathroom floor the next morning.”
I covered my mouth, the weight of his words hitting me like bricks.
“They investigated me, of course. Elena pushed for it. Said I was dangerous. Abusive. Said Melissa told her she was scared of me.”
“Were you?” I asked. “Dangerous?”
He looked down.
“No. But I was... cruel. Not in fists. In silence. In absence. In forgetting to love her the way she needed.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
We sat in silence until the sun dipped low in the sky.
Finally, I stood. “They're launching an investigation. Into us.”
“I know.”
“She’s going to drag you through hell.”
“I’ve lived there before.”
I walked to the door.
Paused.
“You’re not the same man you were with her,” I said, voice trembling. “But if you lie to me… if you hide *anything* from me again, I won’t come back.”
He nodded once.
And as I left, he whispered, “I don’t deserve a second chance, Ivy.”
I turned, meeting his eyes.
“Then earn it.”
—
Later that night, I lay awake staring at my phone, replaying every moment since the club, trying to decide whether I was in love—or just in too deep.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
> *“Meet me. Now. I know what really happened to Melissa Hart.”*
> *—T.B.*
My blood turned to ice.
T.B.
Tara Black.
**My best friend.**
- Writer
