Don’t Call Him My Husband

CHAPTER 3: Rowan Promises Forever

“Say it again.”

Rowan’s voice is soft, almost teasing, but his eyes are serious. We’re lying on the floor of my living room, backs against the couch, the city humming outside the windows like it’s keeping watch over us. My head rests on his shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear.

“Say what again?” I ask.

“That thing you said earlier,” he replies. “The one you pretend didn’t matter.”

I smile to myself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re avoiding.”

I lift my head just enough to look at him. “I said I like the quiet version of us. The one no one sees.”

He nods slowly. “That’s not the part.”

I sigh. “Fine. I said… I want this to last.”

He turns toward me then, fully. The teasing is gone. His hand finds mine, fingers threading together like they’ve done this forever.

“I don’t want it to last,” he says.

My chest tightens. “Rowan—”

“I want it to stay,” he continues. “There’s a difference.”

I don’t speak. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll say something that breaks the moment open too soon.

He shifts closer, his knee brushing mine. “Elara, I don’t believe in halfway feelings. Or temporary people.”

“That sounds dangerous,” I murmur.

“It is,” he agrees. “But only if you plan to leave.”

I swallow. “I don’t.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not planning to either.”

The words settle between us, heavy and bright at the same time.

We stay like that for a while, not touching beyond our hands, letting the quiet stretch. I’ve learned that silence with Rowan doesn’t ask to be filled. It simply exists, patient and certain.

“You know,” I say finally, “people keep asking me where I see myself in five years.”

“And?” he asks.

“I tell them I don’t know,” I reply. “That I’m focused on now.”

He smiles faintly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only honest one I have.”

He considers that. “I know where I see myself.”

“Do you?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“With spreadsheets and meetings?” I tease.

“With you,” he says.

The simplicity of it steals my breath.

I sit up slowly, facing him. “You can’t say things like that so casually.”

“Why not?”

“Because people hear promises in them.”

“I mean it as one.”

The room feels suddenly smaller. Or maybe I’m just more aware of how close he is, how much space he takes up in my life now.

“Forever is a long time,” I say.

He shrugs. “So is regret.”

I laugh softly. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” he says. “But I don’t choose easy.”

I search his face for hesitation, for doubt. I don’t find it. What I find instead scares me more—certainty. The kind that doesn’t question itself.

“You’re serious,” I whisper.

He cups my cheek, thumb brushing just under my eye. “I’ve never been more serious about anything.”

A part of me wants to pull back, to joke it away, to keep this light and unspoken. Another part—the louder one—wants to lean into the promise and let it carry me.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” I say quietly.

“You won’t,” he replies without missing a beat. “I won’t let you.”

That should comfort me.

Instead, it makes my chest ache.

Later, we walk through the city hand in hand, the night wrapped around us like a shared secret. People recognize me sometimes. They smile. They nod. A few whisper. Rowan doesn’t let go of my hand once.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Be so visible with me.”

He glances down at me, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know how to explain the small fear that admiration can turn, that attention is a thing with sharp edges.

We stop at a red light. He turns to face me fully, ignoring the impatient cars behind us.

“Elara,” he says. “Look at me.”

I do.

“I don’t love you quietly,” he says. “I don’t love you in a way that hides. I love you out loud, even when it’s inconvenient.”

My throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re promising.”

“Yes, I do,” he says. “I’m promising to stay.”

The light turns green. Someone honks. Rowan laughs and pulls me forward, back into motion.

At home, we curl up on the couch, my legs tangled with his. He scrolls through something on his phone while I half-watch a movie I’ve already seen.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Always.”

“Has anyone ever tried to hurt you because of your work?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Sabotage. Lies. Anything like that.”

I think of long nights, of competition disguised as support, of smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “Nothing serious.”

He nods, like he’s filing it away. “Good.”

I watch him for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“Because people don’t always like seeing someone rise,” he says. “Especially when it looks effortless.”

“It’s not effortless,” I say.

“I know,” he replies. “But they don’t.”

I reach for his hand. “You’re thinking too much.”

He smiles. “Occupational hazard.”

We don’t talk about it again.

Later, as he sleeps beside me, his arm heavy around my waist, I stare at the ceiling and let the quiet settle. This is happiness, I tell myself. This is what it looks like when things finally align.

My phone lights up on the nightstand.

I hesitate before picking it up.

Mara: You and Rowan looked perfect tonight.

I smile faintly and type back.

Me: We are.

The reply comes slower this time.

Mara: Just… be careful.

I frown.

Me: Careful of what?

No response.

I set the phone down, unease pricking at the edges of my calm. Rowan shifts in his sleep, pulling me closer. I let the feeling go.

The next morning, sunlight spills across the bed. Rowan kisses my shoulder, lazy and warm.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” I reply.

“Stay today,” he says. “Cancel whatever you have.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I have meetings.”

He groans. “I’ll make it worth your while if you try.”

I laugh, pushing him away gently. “Later.”

He watches me get dressed, eyes soft. “Elara?”

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens,” he says, his tone suddenly serious again, “remember this moment.”

I pause. “Why?”

“Because this is real,” he says. “And nothing changes that.”

I walk over and kiss him, slow and sure. “Nothing,” I agree.

At work, the day passes in a blur of praise and progress. Emails pile up. Invitations arrive. My name moves easily through conversations, spoken with admiration.

Around noon, my phone vibrates.

Unknown Number: Does he know yet?

My stomach drops.

I type back, hands steady through effort alone.

Me: Know what?

The reply is instant.

Unknown Number: About forever.

My breath catches.

Me: Who is this?

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Then a final message:

Unknown Number: Forever only works when everyone tells the truth.

I stare at the screen, my pulse loud in my ears.

Across the room, my phone buzzes again—this time with a notification from a news app.

My name is trending.

And the headline reads:

RISING STAR OR CAREFULLY CRAFTED LIE?

The promise of forever echoes in my chest—

just as the ground beneath it begins to c***k.