Chapter Fifty-Four
He was talking with others.
I stood at the corner of the room, near the windows, watching the city glitter below. The wine glass in my hand was my anchor—something to hold, something to do. I'd been sipping slowly, carefully, determined not to need rescuing.
But the wine was good. And the night was long. And the weight of all those eyes had started to press.
Some men's eyes lingered.
Not on the conversation. Not on their wives. On me.
On the dress. On the figure beneath it. On the pale column of my throat that the high neckline couldn't quite hide. They looked, and their wives pretended not to notice, and I pretended not to feel it.
One man in particular.
Forties, maybe. Well-dressed. Expensive watch. His wife stood beside him—older, elegantly aging, the kind of woman who had long ago stopped expecting her husband's attention. He kept glancing my way. Each time, his gaze dropped lower. Each time, I looked away faster.
I scanned the room for Rowan.
He was deep in conversation with a cluster of men near the bar. His back was to me. He hadn't glanced my way in twenty minutes.
That was when I saw her.
The woman.
She stood near the bar, close to Rowan's group, her hand resting lightly on the arm of a man I didn't recognize. But I recognized her.
The restaurant. After the breakup. The woman he'd walked in with, his hand at her back, his head bent toward hers. The woman who had looked so effortlessly perfect, so comfortable in his world.
Jealousy hit me like a wave—hot, irrational, unwanted.
I drained my wine glass in one long swallow.
Then another.
The second glass went down easier. The warmth spread through my chest, dulling the sharper edges of the evening. I set the glass on a passing tray and told myself I was fine.
I was not fine.
The man in his forties was still watching.
I excused myself toward the washroom.
---
The hallway was quiet.
Carpet muffled my footsteps. Soft lighting glowed from sconces along the walls. The sounds of the party faded behind me, replaced by the distant hum of the city through the windows.
I pushed open the washroom door and stood before the mirror for a long moment.
My reflection stared back.
Pale. Flushed across the cheeks from wine. Eyes too bright, too restless.
I looked like a woman barely holding together.
I ran cold water over my wrists, the way my mother used to show me. It helped, a little. I patted my face dry with a soft towel, adjusted my dress, smoothed my hair.
You can do this, I told my reflection.
Just a few more hours.
Then you can go home and fall apart in private.
I took a breath, straightened my spine, and pushed open the door.
The hallway was empty.
I walked back toward the party, my heels silent on the thick carpet.
Then—
A hand clamped over my mouth.
Hard.
I froze, panic exploding through my chest. Another arm wrapped around my waist, yanking me backward, into a darkened alcove hidden from the main hallway.
I tried to scream. The hand muffled everything.
I struggled—kicking, twisting, clawing at the arm around me. My ribs screamed in protest. My pulse roared in my ears.
"Shh, shh," a voice breathed against my ear. Male. Rough. Familiar.
He turned me slightly, and I saw his face.
The man in his forties.
The one who had been staring all night.
"Don't scream," he murmured. "I just want to talk."
His grip didn't loosen.
I thrashed harder, a guttural sound tearing from my throat behind his hand. He pressed me against the wall, his body too close, his breath hot on my neck.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "That husband of yours doesn't appreciate what he has. Doesn't look at you. Doesn't touch you."
I bit down on the inside of his hand.
He swore, yanking back—but only for a second. Then his mouth was on mine, wet and rough and wrong.
I kicked. Hard.
My knee connected with something. He grunted, stumbling back, and I screamed—
"HELP!"
The word ripped from me, raw and desperate.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway.
And then Rowan was there.
He moved like something inhuman—fast, violent, precise. His fist connected with the man's face before I could blink. Another punch. Another. The man crumpled, and Rowan kept going, dragging him up by the collar, slamming him against the wall.
"You touch her?" Rowan's voice was barely human. Low. Lethal. "You put your hands on my wife?"
The man's face was already bleeding. He tried to speak, but Rowan's fist cut him off.
Again.
Again.
I pressed myself against the wall, shaking, sobbing, watching Rowan become something I'd never seen—a monster of protection, of possession, of pure, unthinking rage.
Then a woman's voice cut through the chaos.
"Stop! Stop beating my husband!"
The man's wife appeared, shoving through the small crowd that had gathered. Her face was twisted with fury—but not at her husband.
At me.
She pointed a shaking finger. "Your wife was seducing my man! The way she was dressed, the way she was looking at him—standing there like a—like a—"
She spat the words.
"You shameless bitch."
Rowan froze.
His head turned slowly toward her, and the look in his eyes made even me flinch.
"What did you call her?"
The woman faltered, but her fury was stronger than her fear. "Everyone saw it! Dressed like that, drinking alone, looking at every man in the room—she wanted attention, and she got it. This is her fault!"
Rowan released her husband. The man slid down the wall, a broken heap on the carpet.
He walked toward me.
I shook my head, tears streaming, words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Rowan—no—I didn't—I was just standing there—he grabbed me—I didn't do anything—"
My voice broke. The wine sloshed in my stomach, mixing with terror and shame and the horrible, crushing weight of being blamed.
Rowan stopped in front of me.
His chest heaved. His knuckles were bloody. His eyes burned with something I couldn't name.
He didn't speak.
He just grabbed my wrist—not gently—and pulled me down the hallway, away from the crowd, away from the woman still screaming obscenities, away from her husband bleeding on the floor.
I stumbled after him, half-running, half-dragged, tears cutting tracks through my makeup.
"Rowan—please—I didn't—"
He didn't answer.
He pulled me through the restaurant, past shocked faces, out into the cold night air. The car was waiting. Leon opened the door.
Rowan practically threw me inside.
The door slammed.
We drove.
And in the dark, silent car, with the city blurring past and Rowan's rage filling every inch of space, I sat shaking, drunk, and utterly destroyed.
Because the worst part wasn't what that man had done.
It was the look in Rowan's eyes when that woman blamed me.
It was the moment of hesitation.
The fraction of a second where he might have believed her.