Chapter 13 – The Morning After the Fire
1050 Words
Sunlight sliced through the penthouse windows like a blade, turning the marble floors into a sheet of pale gold. Mara woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something sharper, regret, maybe, or the ghost of Rowan’s mouth on hers.
She lay there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling, lips still swollen, heart doing inconvenient flips every time she remembered his hand in her hair.
This doesn’t mean anything.
She repeated it like a prayer, then threw the covers back and padded to the kitchen in one of herT-shirts and her own stubborn denial.
Mrs. Helena was at the stove, flipping French toast that smelled like vanilla and sin.
“Morning, love,” the housekeeper said without turning. “Coffee’s hot. He’s in his office.”
Mara poured a mug, black, no sugar, how he drank it, a habit she hated that she’d picked up. “He came back?”
“About an hour ago. Looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.”
Mara leaned against the counter, sipped. The coffee burned her tongue exactly right.
Mrs. Helena slid a plate toward her. “Eat. You’ll need strength today.”
“Why?”
The older woman’s eyes softened. “Because men like Rowan don’t kiss like that and then act normal in the morning.”
Mara nearly choked on her coffee.
Before she could respond, Rowan appeared in the doorway.
He looked unfairly perfect, dark jeans, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, hair still damp from a shower. But his eyes were bloodshot, jaw shadowed, and the way he looked at her was careful. Too careful.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
Silence stretched, thick as honey.
Mrs. Helena cleared her throat. “I’ll just… check the linens.”
She vanished.
Rowan poured himself coffee, leaned against the opposite counter. They faced each other across six feet of marble and one catastrophic kiss.
“Tokyo fixed?” Mara asked.
“For now.”
“Good.”
Another silence.
Rowan set his mug down. “About last night....”
“Don’t.” She cut him off. “We were both running on adrenaline and bad lasagna. It was a mistake.”
His eyes narrowed. “Was it?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “We have a contract. Clean lines. No complications.”
Rowan’s mouth twisted. “Right. Clean lines.”
He stepped closer. Not touching, just close enough that she could smell his soap and the faint trace of last night’s whiskey still on his breath.
“You’re a terrible liar, Whitlock.”
“And you’re a terrible actor,” she shot back. “You kissed me because you felt sorry for me.”
He laughed, low and dangerous. “I kissed you because I’ve wanted to since the night you tore up ten grand in the rain.”
Mara’s heart slammed against her ribs.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I don’t.”
They stared at each other, breathing hard.
Then Rowan’s phone buzzed on the counter.
He glanced at it, face going very still.
“What?” Mara asked.
He turned the screen toward her.
An email from his PR team.
Subject: Urgent – Page Six Exclusive Dropping in One Hour
Attached: a grainy photo from the Whitlock dinner, Camille leaning across the table, mouth open in mock shock, Mara mid-sentence, Rowan’s hand visibly tight on Mara’s thigh under the tablecloth.
Headline preview:
ROWAN VALE’S FIANCÉE IN VICIOUS FAMILY BRAWL AT SISTER’S BIRTHDAY “Gold-Digger” Accusations Fly
Article snippet:
Sources close to the family say Mara Whitlock’s engagement to billionaire Rowan Vale is a desperate grab for money after her own sister stole her ex-boyfriend. Insiders claim the dinner ended in shouting, with Vale threatening physical violence…
Mara felt the blood drain from her face.
Rowan’s voice was calm. Too calm.
“Camille didn’t waste time.”
Mara set her coffee down before she dropped it. “She’s going to drag this out until she gets what she wants.”
“And what’s that?”
“Me destroyed. You embarrassed. Both of us bleeding.”
Rowan pocketed his phone. “Not happening.”
He crossed to her in two strides, cupped her face in both hands.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“This changes nothing,” he said, echoing her words from last night. “We stick to the plan. We smile for cameras. We let them think we’re unbothered.”
His thumbs brushed her cheeks.
“And we don’t let her win.”
Mara swallowed. “Okay.”
He didn’t let go.
For a moment they just breathed together.
Then Mrs. Helena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Delivery at the door. Flowers. Lots of them.”
Rowan released her, went to see.
Mara followed.
In the foyer stood three enormous arrangements of peonies—deep pink, soft cream, blush—filling the air with their sweet, heavy scent.
The card on the largest one was in Rowan’s handwriting.
For the woman who burns tables down.
Mara stared at it.
Rowan shrugged, almost sheepish. “I ordered them from the office last night. Before the kiss. Just… thought you deserved them.”
Her throat closed.
Mrs. Helena beamed from behind the vases. “I’ll put these in water.”
She bustled off.
Mara looked up at Rowan.
“You’re still an arrogant bastard,” she said.
“I know.”
“And this still doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know.”
But his eyes said something different.
And for the first time, Mara wasn’t sure she believed her own lie.
Outside, the city woke up.
Inside, the war with Camille escalated.
And somewhere between peonies and denial, something quiet and dangerous took root.
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