Chapter Nine
1224 Words
The Maybach was a tomb on wheels.
Rowan sat on the opposite end of the back seat, jacket unbuttoned, elbows on his knees, staring out at the city like it owed him blood. The passing streetlights carved harsh shadows across his cheekbones and jaw; every flash made the muscle there jump. He hadn’t spoken since they left the gala. Not once.
Mara kept her hands folded so tightly in her lap the diamond on her finger cut into her skin. The red silk of her dress felt suddenly cheap under the weight of Camille’s smile still burned into her retinas: slow, venomous, victorious.
Rowan finally broke the silence, voice flat and deadly.
“Your sister. Explain.”
Mara swallowed. The sound was loud in the leather-scented quiet. “Camille doesn’t lose. Ever. When we were kids she took my toys, my friends, my birthday candles. When I started dating Lucas… she waited exactly six months and took him too. That’s all this is. Ownership.”
Rowan turned his head slowly. His eyes were winter storm-gray.
“And the man beside her?”
“My ex.”
The word hung between them like a blade.
Rowan’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “So the woman who destroyed your life just waltzed into mine with a phone full of ammunition. And you never thought to mention she existed?”
“I didn’t think she could reach your altitude!” Mara snapped. “She doesn’t belong in your world!”
“She does now.” His voice dropped to something lethal. “Because someone invited her. Someone who wants me bleeding.”
The car slid into the underground garage, tires hissing over wet concrete. Rowan was out before it fully stopped, striding toward the private elevator without looking back.
Mara had to run in her heels to catch up, the click-clack echoing like gunshots.
Inside the elevator he leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, staring straight ahead. The air smelled of his cologne and barely leashed fury.
“Rowan....”
“Not here.”
The doors opened directly into the penthouse. He went straight to the bar, poured three fingers of something amber, and threw half of it back like it had personally insulted him.
Mara stayed by the elevator, arms wrapped around herself, the red dress suddenly feeling like a target painted on her skin.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
He slammed the glass down hard enough to spiderweb the crystal. “Sorry doesn’t kill tomorrow’s headlines.”
“I didn’t invite her......”
“You should have warned me the second you signed that contract that you came with a walking, talking liability.” His voice cracked across the room like a whip. “Do you have any idea what happens if the board sees those photos? If my uncle convinces them my ‘stable fiancée’ is tabloid poison?”
Mara’s chin came up. “Then tell them the truth. Tell them I’m a paid actress. I’ll survive.”
He laughed again, colder this time. “You think I give a damn about the money? This isn’t about the contract anymore.”
“Then what is it about?”
Rowan dragged a hand through his hair, turned away like looking at her hurt.
Mara felt something inside her fracture.
“You know what?” Her voice shook with rage and something dangerously close to tears. “You’re right. I am a landmine. And you’re the arrogant bastard who stepped on me anyway. You wanted quiet, polite, uncomplicated? You should have hired a golden retriever.”
She started toward her wing.
Rowan moved faster, catching her wrist and spinning her back against the hallway wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.
“Let go.”
“No.” He crowded her, one hand planted beside her head, the other still locked around her wrist. “We’re not done.”
He was close enough that she felt the heat rolling off him, smelled whiskey and rain and the faint trace of the gala’s cigar smoke still clinging to his jacket.
“You don’t get to walk away when this explodes in my face,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
“And you don’t get to punish me for existing!” she hissed. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”
Their breathing was harsh in the silence, chests almost touching.
Rowan’s grip loosened, but he didn’t step back. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, once, twice, tracing her racing pulse like he was memorizing it.
“You drive me insane,” he muttered.
“Right back at you.”
His forehead dropped to hers. Just for a second. A surrender neither of them would ever admit.
Then his phone buzzed, shrill and ugly.
He stepped back, answered without looking.
“Vale.” A pause. His entire body went rigid. “You’re sure?”
Another pause.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
He ended the call.
“Security,” he said, voice stripped bare. “Camille and your ex are downstairs. Press is already outside the lobby. They want a statement.”
Mara felt the blood drain from her face.
Rowan’s eyes were hard, ancient. “Two choices. I throw them out and call lawyers. Or you go down there and handle your family. But if you go, I’m right beside you.”
Before she could answer, the elevator dinged again, uninvited.
The doors slid open.
Alistair Vale stepped out, silver hair gleaming under the recessed lights, smile sharp as a scalpel.
“Rowan,” he said pleasantly, dangling a black keycard between two fingers. “You didn’t tell me we were having a family reunion.”
Rowan moved so fast Mara barely saw it, placing himself between her and his uncle like a shield.
“How the hell did you get up here?”
“Your father still trusts me with certain things.” Alistair’s gaze slid past Rowan, settled on Mara with predatory interest. “And this must be the famous fiancée. My, my. She’s even prettier than the photos your sister so helpfully posted.”
Mara’s stomach dropped through the marble floor.
Rowan’s voice turned to ice. “Get out.”
“Not yet.” Alistair’s smile widened. “I came to deliver good news. Emergency board meeting. Tomorrow morning. They want to discuss the morality clause… and your suitability as CEO.”
He turned to leave, then paused in the elevator doors.
“Oh, and Rowan? Do give my regards to your father. I hear he’s had another bad night.”
The doors closed.
Rowan didn’t move for a long, terrible moment.
When he finally turned to her, every trace of warmth was gone.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “everything changes.”
Below them, thirty-eight floors down, Camille’s laughter drifted up through the building’s intercom like smoke under a door.
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