Two Wrongs

Chapter 5

ROWAN

I was not a man who cared much for sentiment. But loyalty? Loyalty was a currency I understood completely.

I came from a world where a partner could shake your hand in the light of day and bleed you dry behind closed doors. My father had learned that lesson the hard way, losing his firm and his health to a hostile takeover he never saw coming. I had watched him fall apart.

So I built my life on precision. I moved carefully. I kept my circle small, my motives hidden, and my guard permanently up.

And somehow, Maeve had still slipped through the defenses.

To quietly restructure my family's legacy firm without alerting the board, I needed to play a specific role: low-profile, predictable, anchored. The easiest way to project stability to the corporate world was marriage. A quiet life. No scandals. No one looks twice at a man who appears utterly settled.

Four years ago, I walked into a gallery opening downtown.

I saw her first.

A group of three women standing near an architectural showcase, laughing softly. One of them immediately held my attention. Classic features, an unpretentious grace, the kind of woman who moved through a space without needing to demand it.

Elena.

She had leaned over to whisper something to her companion, and they both smiled. I could tell they were noting my presence across the room. I was preparing to walk over.

Then Maeve cut right across the floor.

Striking smile. Sharp, confident eyes that knew exactly how to command a room. By the time she had finished introducing herself and steering the conversation, Elena had quietly moved to another exhibit. And out of my immediate path.

I left with Maeve that evening. She fit the public profile I needed. Glamorous enough to be noticed, self-absorbed enough to refrain from asking deep questions about my private business dealings. I pursued her. I set aside the thought of the other woman.

I made my choice.

Six months into our relationship, Maeve couldn't stop talking about her university friend Elena’s upcoming wedding to a rising star in real estate—Jonah. A high-society affair. The golden couple.

Maeve wanted that level of public prestige. She made that clear. Frequently.

I asked her to give me three years to finalize my restructured assets.

Apparently, she lacked the patience to wait in quiet support. She complained. She staged subtle dramatic exits when things got quiet. But she stayed. And at the time, I mistook her persistence for devotion.

We married two years later.

Nine months into the marriage, I discovered she was sleeping with Jonah.

Three months ago.

The irony was sharp: I had assumed Maeve, for all her superficial tendencies, would never risk what we were building. She was too accustomed to her comfort, too invested in the future financial standing I had guaranteed her.

I had miscalculated.

Once the suspicion took root, every anomaly became visible. The unexplained gaps in her schedule. The distant looks. The subtle flinching whenever I reached out to touch her hand. The endless excuses of migraine headaches and fatigue. And when she did go through the motions of affection, it felt like an act of obligation.

After I confirmed the truth, I stopped trying. She seemed relieved. She certainly never reached for me.

Then I investigated further.

Her family was in on it. When Maeve claimed she was spending the weekend with her mother or brother, a single phone call confirmed they covered her tracks without a second thought. Jonah was bankrolling luxury vacations for her, and she was funneling gifts to them. Designer leather goods for her mother. A luxury watch for her brother.

The entire family was complicit.

I began assembling a dossier. Receipts, dates, bank transfers, photographic evidence. Quietly. Systematically.

My original strategy was to serve her with divorce papers today—publicly, regardless of where she was or who she was with.

Two days ago, I changed the blueprint.

Because Maeve kept visiting Elena’s home. Sitting in Elena's kitchen. Embracing her. Calling her a sister. And then meeting Jonah at private properties while Elena was left in the dark.

The public treated Jonah like a paragon of devotion. Press write-ups on his charitable donations. Social media posts of him carrying lilies home on Tuesdays. The local press framed Elena as the luckiest woman in the city.

They had no idea what kind of snake was sitting at their table.

Back in the quiet suite at Blackwood Cove, the speakerphone crackled with tension.

"Elena," Jonah repeated, his voice dropping an octave, cold and demanding. "I'll ask you one more time. Who is in that room with you?"

Elena’s eyes flared with a mix of fear and sudden, icy resolve. She looked at me, then down at the glowing screen on the mattress.

"My assistant," Elena lied smoothly, her voice steadying as she locked eyes with me. "She dropped off the revised blueprint files for Monday's client pitch. I tripped over the rug when the phone rang."

A heavy silence stretched over the line. Across the miles, I could practically hear Jonah evaluating the excuse, searching for a seam in her delivery.

"You sounded... breathless," Jonah said slowly.

"Because I almost took down a lamp, Jonah," Elena replied, leaning into a sharp, believable irritation. "Is there a reason you're interrogating me at eight in the morning while you're supposed to be in a corporate retreat?"

Another pause.

"No," Jonah said, though the warmth didn't return to his voice. "Just checking on you. Make sure the doors are locked."

"They always are," Elena said flatly. "Enjoy your meeting."

She disconnected the call before he could respond and tossed the phone onto the nightstand.

She let out a long, ragged breath, her shoulders sagging as the adrenaline drained. She turned to look at me, her eyes clear and dangerously focused for the first time since we arrived at the coast.

"He believes he's the only one playing a double game," she whispered.

"Let him believe it," I said, leaning back against the pillows. "It makes the fall that much sweeter."