Chapter 15 – The First Crack
1243 Words
Eleanor’s health took a sharp turn.
A lung infection landed her in the hospital overnight. Rowan spent three days at her bedside, face gray with exhaustion.
Mara handled the company, board calls, Tokyo negotiations, press statements, while pretending her heart wasn’t in her throat every time the phone rang.
On the fourth day, Eleanor was stable enough for visitors.
Mara arrived with peonies and the dark chocolate Eleanor loved.
Rowan was asleep in the chair beside the bed, head tipped back, one hand still holding his mother’s.
Mara’s chest ached.
Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open.
“Darling girl,” she whispered. “Come here.”
Mara sat on the bed’s edge.
Eleanor squeezed her hand weakly. “He hasn’t left.”
“I know.”
“He’s terrified of losing me.” A pause, oxygen hissing softly. “But he’s more terrified of losing you.”
Mara’s throat closed.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Eleanor smiled. “I’m old, not blind. The way he looks at you when you’re not watching… it’s how his father looked at me before he had the courage to say it.”
Mara shook her head. “It’s not real.”
“Real enough.” Eleanor’s grip tightened. “Promise me you’ll stay. Even when he’s an i***t. He will be. Vale men always are.”
Mara couldn’t speak.
Rowan stirred, woke up and saw them.
His eyes were bloodshot.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Eleanor patted his hand. “Take Mara home. She’s exhausted.”
They left together.
In the car, silence.
Then Rowan said, “Thank you. For everything this week.”
Mara looked out the window. “It’s my job.”
“It’s not.”
She turned to him.
He was staring straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Need someone.”
Mara’s heart cracked open.
She reached over, covered his hand on the gearshift.
“You’re doing okay.”
He flipped his hand, laced their fingers.
They drove the rest of the way like that.
Eleanor insisted on the Aspen trip, “fresh air will do us all good.”
The chalet was stunning: stone and timber, roaring fire, snow piling against the windows.
One problem: only one bedroom was “ready.”
Mrs. Helena’s knowing smile said everything.
Rowan and Mara stood in the master suite staring at the king bed like it was a bomb.
“I’ll take the couch,” Rowan said.
“There’s no couch.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“With what, your pride for a pillow?”
He laughed despite himself.
They ended up on opposite edges of the bed, a careful foot of space between them, backs turned.
At 2 a.m. Mara woke freezing.
Rowan was already awake, staring at the ceiling.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Freezing.”
He opened his arm without thinking.
She hesitated, then scooted over, curling into his side.
His arm came around her immediately.
They fell asleep like that.
Morning brought a blizzard. Roads closed. Power flickering.
They spent the day in the great room, board games with Eleanor, hot chocolate, stories from Rowan’s childhood.
At night, the power went out completely.
Candles. Firelight. Wine.
Eleanor went to bed early.
Rowan and Mara ended up on the rug in front of the fire.
Talking.
Really talking.
About her childhood. His father’s expectations. The weight of legacies.
At some point their hands found each other.
At some point the talking stopped.
Rowan kissed her, slow, deep, firelight flickering across their skin.
Rowan woke first.
Mara was curled against him, face soft in sleep, hair spilled across his chest.
His heart did something terrifying.
He carefully extracted himself, dressed in silence, and left before she woke.
When Mara came downstairs, he was already on a call, voice clipped, back turned.
The warmth from last night was gone.
She poured coffee, hands steady through sheer will.
Eleanor watched them both with sad eyes.
The helicopter arrived early.
The ride home was silent.
Back in the penthouse, Rowan disappeared into his wing.
Mara stood in the bedroom that still smelled like them and felt something inside her shatter.
She stripped the sheets herself, remade the bed with fresh ones.
When Rowan emerged hours later, she was cool. Polite. Distant.
“Good trip?” she asked.
“Fine.”
They didn’t speak of Aspen again.
But every night, Mara dreamed of firelight and his arms around her.
Every morning, Rowan woke reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
Rowan started bringing women home.
Not subtly.
The first was a Victoria’s Secret model who laughed too loud in the kitchen at 3 a.m.
Mara wore noise-canceling headphones and ordered a $38,000 Birkin in “revenge red.”
The second was an actress who left lipstick on a wine glass Mara deliberately broke while “cleaning.”
The third stayed for breakfast.
Mara smiled sweetly and told Mrs. Helena, “Mr. Vale has guests. Perhaps separate dining schedules would be best.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched so hard she heard it.
One night he brought home twins.
Mara walked past them in the hallway wearing nothing but his Harvard T-shirt and a smile that could cut glass.
“Careful,” she said. “Some diseases come in pairs.”
Rowan’s eyes followed her until she disappeared.
Later, he sent the twins home early.
Mara invited Julian Hargrove for dinner.
Julian arrived with flowers and eyes that undressed her in the foyer.
They drank wine on the couch, laughing too loud.
Rowan walked in at 10 p.m., saw Julian’s hand on Mara’s knee, and lost his mind.
He grabbed Julian by the collar, slammed him against the wall.
“Get your hands off her.”
Julian laughed. “She invited me.”
Rowan’s fist connected with Julian’s jaw.
Mara stood. “Stop!”
Rowan turned to her, eyes wild.
“You want to play this game?” he growled. “Fine.”
He kissed her hard, possessive, punishing her right in front of Julian.
Mara kissed back for five devastating seconds.
Then shoved him away.
“We’re not real, remember?” she said, voice shaking. “You made that very clear with your parade.”
Julian wiped blood from his lip, grinning. “I’ll see myself out.”
The door closed.
Rowan and Mara stared at each other, breathing fire.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said.
But neither moved to leave.
Alistair launched his attack.
A forged medical report claiming Rowan was “unstable due to personal turmoil.”
Stock plummeted.
Emergency board meeting.
Rowan and Mara walked in together, her hand in his, heads high.
Alistair smiled like a shark.
After a very long meeting, it was discovered that the evidence was fake, Alistair feigned ignorance claiming someone anonymously sent it to him.
Afterward, in the empty boardroom, Rowan leaned against the table, head in hands.
Mara stood beside him.
“We won,” she said softly.
He looked up. “Did we?”
She took his hand.
“For today.”
He pulled her into his arms, buried his face in her neck.
“I’m tired of fighting you,” he whispered.
“Then stop,” she whispered back.
They kissed slow, desperate, real.
When they pulled apart, both knew nothing would ever be the same.
But neither said it out loud.
- Writer
