Two Wrongs

Chapter Two

Rowan’s sleek black SUV pulled up to the iron gates of Blackwood Cove at exactly five in the evening.

Neither of us had spoken a word during the forty-minute drive. There was no room for small talk in a vehicle carrying two people headed toward their own execution. We were either about to expose his paranoia, or we were about to watch our marriages burn to the ground.

The estate sat perched on the high cliffs overlooking the ocean—a sprawling compound of smoked glass, dark timber, and brutalist architecture. According to Rowan’s sources, Jonah had bought out the entire private oceanfront pavilion for four days. It was built for absolute privacy.

But Rowan had prepared.

Two maintenance workers met us at the service entrance on the south side of the grounds. Rowan slipped a folded stack of bills into the lead worker's hand without breaking stride, and we were quietly led through a damp underground laundry corridor and out into the estate’s sprawling cliffside gardens.

Above us, the sky was bruised a dark, violent purple. Heavy thunder rolled over the ocean, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of an incoming downpour.

"Stay low," Rowan murmured, his voice barely louder than the rising wind. "We have to be quick."

We moved through the thick line of cedar trees surrounding the inner garden. A small, desperate part of me—the foolish, trusting part—was still praying. Please let the garden be empty. Please let this be a misunderstanding. Let me go home and prove to myself that I wasn't a complete fool.

Then I saw him.

Jonah.

My husband was standing near the edge of the stone patio, dressed in a loose linen shirt and relaxed trousers—clothes I had never seen him wear for any corporate retreat. He had a glass of amber liquor in one hand, looking relaxed in a way he hadn't looked around me in months.

And tucked tightly under his opposite arm was Maeve.

She was laughing, her face turned up toward his. They looked like two people sharing an intimate, beautiful joke that the rest of the world wasn't privileged enough to hear.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My legs suddenly felt hollow, like glass ready to shatter.

No. My mind was screaming the word in an endless, deafening loop. No, no, no.

Beside me, Rowan froze. He didn't say a word, but I felt his gaze shift to me—a single, sharp glance to check if I was still upright.

I was. Barely.

With fingers trembling so violently I could barely navigate the screen, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jonah's number.

Across the stone courtyard, I watched Jonah glance down at his vibrating phone. He murmured something to Maeve, who smirked and lightly swiped at his arm. Then, with smooth, practiced ease, he answered.

"Hey, my love." His voice came through the speaker warm, affectionate, and completely unbothered. "I was just thinking about you. I miss you so much already."

A thick knot closed off my throat, but I forced the words past my lips. "Where are you right now, Jonah?"

"Just wrapped up a brutal afternoon meeting at the hotel conference center," he lied, without a single micro-falter in his rhythm. "I'm buried in paperwork, but I couldn't stop thinking about your face. Did you eat dinner yet? Don't stay up late waiting for my text, okay?"

"I won't," I choked out.

"I love you, Elena. I'll call you first thing in the morning."

The line went dead.

Across the garden, Jonah slid his phone back into his pocket and turned straight back to Maeve. She reached up, cupped his jawline with both hands, and pulled his head down to hers.

He didn't pull away. He kissed her—deeply, possessively—the exact way he used to kiss me on our anniversary.

Right then, the clouds tore open. Heavy, freezing rain poured down in sheets, drenching my hair and soaking through my coat within seconds. I just stood there, paralyzed, letting the storm drown me.

Tears scalded my cheeks, mixing so completely with the rainwater that I couldn't tell where the storm ended and my heartbreak began.

Maeve threw her head back, laughing at something he whispered into her neck, and backed up against the wide trunk of an old cedar tree.

Jonah didn't hesitate. His hands moved over her body with an intimate, practiced ease—like he knew every curve, every breath, every secret spot. Because he did. He had done this dozens of times before.

My breath trapped itself in my lungs.

He lifted her effortlessly against the tree, holding her like she was the only thing in his universe—like I had never existed, like five years of marriage had been wiped from the ledger in a single second.

I watched my husband give himself completely to my best friend in the pouring rain, and I couldn't tear my eyes away.

I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. Something fundamental inside me snapped, leaving a cold, hollow cavern where my heart used to be.

Suddenly, a firm hand clamped around my upper arm.

"Come on," Rowan said softly, his voice tight with controlled fury. "You've seen enough."

I didn't resist. I let him pull me back through the trees, away from the rain, away from Jonah and Maeve, and away from the wreckage of the life I had built.

He was right. I had seen enough.

Enough to know that every bouquet of lilies, every late-night love note, every whispered promise, and every gentle kiss on my forehead had been a calculated lie.

Five years. Erased in an instant.

I didn't break down or scream the way people do in movies. I just walked numbly through the storm beside a man who was a total stranger an hour ago—soaked to the bone, entirely hollow, with a single question echoing endlessly through the quiet of my mind:

What was wrong with me?