Two Wrongs

Chapter Three

Rowan didn’t drive me home.

I didn't protest. I couldn't. The storm had worsened into a torrential downpour that reduced visibility to a few blurry yards, and my body was trembling so violently from shock and cold that I could barely keep myself upright.

He spoke in a low, even tone to the front desk clerk at the West Wing, handed over a titanium black card, and within five minutes we were ushered into a private luxury suite overlooking the stormy coastline.

The suite was warm, smelling faintly of cedar and expensive linens, far too pristine for the shattered wreck of a night I was experiencing. I walked numbly to the velvet sofa in the center of the living area, sat down, and froze.

I didn't strip off my rain-soaked coat. I didn't reach for a towel. I just stared blindly at the dark glass of the balcony doors as rain hammered against them, feeling something deep in my chest fracture over and over in the exact same spot.

Rowan moved soundlessly around the suite. I heard the quiet hum of the climate control kicking on, followed by the clink of porcelain mugs in the kitchen corner. He didn't force conversation, and for that, I was profoundly grateful—I had no words left inside me anyway.

He set a steaming mug of black tea on the marble table before me.

I stared down at the swirling dark liquid.

"Drink it," he commanded quietly. Not harshly, but with steady authority.

I wrapped both hands around the ceramic mug because a single hand couldn't stop shaking. The radiating warmth bled into my icy palms, and I held onto it like it was the only real, solid anchor left in a world that had just dissolved beneath me.

I wept silently for a long time. Not loud, hysterical sobbing—just hot tears that leaked continuously from my eyes no matter how often I wiped them away. The kind of silent grief that asks no permission and refuses to stop just because you want it to.

Rowan sat on the opposite end of the couch. Not close enough to intrude, but close enough to let me know I wasn't alone in the dark.

At some point, a violent shiver racked my shoulders despite the room's warmth. The bone-deep chill from the cliffside garden had settled into my frame and refused to budge.

"Come here," Rowan said.

It wasn't a question, but it wasn't harsh either. It was just calm, immovable certainty.

Without thinking, I leaned sideways into him. His heavy arm wrapped around my shoulders, drawing me against his side. He was warm, firm, and smelled of rain, crisp sea air, and subtle sandalwood.

I wept a little more against the fabric of his dark jacket.

He didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't tell me it was going to be fine. He simply held me steady while my entire world disintegrated, and somehow, that quiet solidarity was the only thing keeping me alive.

I don't remember when sleep finally claimed me.

Morning arrived gray, damp, and silent.

I opened my eyes slowly, my body heavy with exhaustion. The first thing I noticed was that I was lying down on the sofa alone, wrapped in a plush cashmere blanket that hadn't been there the night before. The steady hum of the heater filled the room, and the storm outside had abated into a soft, steady mist.

I sat up, scanning the open-plan suite.

No sign of Rowan. He must have left at dawn.

The memory of falling asleep against his chest flashed through my mind—the firm rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his arm around my shoulders. I pushed the thought down immediately and reached for my phone on the table.

I would order a ride, get back to our townhouse, and figure out how to dismantle five years of marriage.

I was still staring at the blank screen, trying to coax my numb brain into functioning, when the suite's front door clicked open. Rowan walked in, carrying two crisp brown paper bags from a high-end boutique down the road.

I blinked at him in surprise.

He set the bags on the counter with practiced calm. "There’s a boutique and apothecary downstairs in the main lodge. Go wash up. I had breakfast sent up to the dining table. I’ll drive you home after I change."

I opened my mouth, then hesitated. "You didn't need to do all of that."

"I know."

He said it simply, expecting no gratitude, and something about his low, unvarnished honesty made a knot form in my throat.

"Thank you, Rowan," I managed to say.

He gave a slight nod toward the bags. "Go ahead."

The bathroom amenities were a merciful relief. I stood beneath the cascading hot water for a long time, letting the heat wash over my skin while trying desperately to blank out my mind.

I failed completely.

Jonah’s face kept flashing behind my eyelids—the effortless warmth in his voice while lying to me on the phone, the way he had pulled Maeve into his arms under the pouring rain, the way they laughed together like I had never existed.

I pressed my forehead against the cool marble tile of the shower wall and forced myself to take deep, measured breaths until the panic subsided.

When I stepped out and unpacked the clothing Rowan had purchased, I froze.

I held up the cream-colored knit top and tailored linen shorts, blinking in disbelief.

The shorts were impossibly brief, ending high on the thigh. The top was finely woven, fitting snug across the chest. I slipped into them and looked down at myself in the mirror, almost letting out a breath of incredulous laughter—I hadn't thought I had any humor left in me.

The shorts barely covered my legs, making them look endless, and the fabric clung tightly to my frame in ways I normally never dressed.

I walked back out into the main living space anyway. I was going straight to my car once we got back; it didn't matter.

Rowan was standing at the kitchen counter, pouring a glass of sparkling water. Hearing my footsteps, he turned around. His dark eyes swept over me in one quick, thorough glance—the deliberate look of a man attempting not to stare too obviously.

He looked away, taking a slow drink of water.

"They were the only contemporary options available in the lodge shop," he said, his tone perfectly even.

"It's fine," I said quietly. "I'm heading straight home anyway."

A faint, dry micro-expression touched his features—not quite a smile, but an edge of dark irony. "I gave the shopkeeper Maeve's sizes."

The name hung in the air between us like a heavy weight dropping into deep water.

"Of course you did," I whispered.

He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the dining table set with fresh fruit and pastries. "Eat something. I've already eaten. I won't be long."

He stepped into the adjoining bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

I sat at the table, pushing a strawberry around my plate without taking a bite.

My mind refused to stay in the present. It kept dragging me back to the cliffside garden—the rain, Jonah's hands on her waist, Maeve’s triumphant laugh as she leaned against that tree as if she owned the world, including my husband.

I set my fork down with a quiet clatter and stared out at the gray ocean.

They were still here right now. In this exact resort, just two wings over. Warm, wrapped up in each other, completely untroubled by guilt, while I sat here in borrowed clothes two sizes too small trying to remember how to draw a full breath.

The bedroom door creaked open.

I turned around, and immediately wished I hadn't.

Rowan stepped into the room wearing nothing but a dark towel slung low on his hips, damp droplets glistening on his shoulders. He was clearly looking for a fresh shirt draped over the sofa armrest, completely unselfconscious.

I hadn't intended to look.

I looked.

His torso was sculpted with hard, defined lines—the kind of cut physique that came from rigorous discipline rather than mere aesthetics. Broad shoulders, a taut core, and a presence that made it instantly obvious why any woman would hesitate to lose his attention.

A sharp, intrusive thought crossed my mind before I could stop it:

Maeve Vance, what on earth were you thinking? You had this man at home, and you threw it away for Jonah?

Rowan picked up his shirt from the sofa. As he turned to walk back to the bedroom, I looked down quickly, picking up my fork and pretending to study my plate.

"Maeve," I blurted out before my brain could censor the impulse.

He paused in the doorway.

I kept my eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "What do you think they're doing right now?"

A short silence stretched between us. Then I heard him shift, leaning against the doorframe, shirt still held in one hand, watching me with an unreadable expression.

"Probably staying warm," Rowan said softly. "Given the weather."

I gave a slow nod. "We were good spouses to them."

"Yes. We were."

"We gave them everything." My voice sounded surprisingly steady. "And they did this to us anyway."

Rowan let out a long, quiet breath. "I know."

Our eyes met across the quiet room. Outside, the rain continued its persistent, gray fall against the glass.

I let out a bitter, quiet laugh and looked away. "Maybe we should just cheat on them too."

The air in the room went dead silent.

I could feel his gaze burning into the side of my face, but I kept my eyes on the window.

"You're joking," he said quietly.

I turned my head and met his sharp, intense dark eyes directly.

"Am I?"

Rowan studied me for a long, heavy moment. Something dangerous shifted in his eyes—not surprise, but a calculating, deliberate evaluation, as if he were turning the thought over in his mind and weighing every single consequence.

"What if we did?" he murmured.