Chapter Fifty-Five
The car ride was a blur of neon and silence.
I sat pressed against the door, as far from Rowan as the back seat would allow. My body shook uncontrollably—aftershocks of terror, of adrenaline, of the horrible, drowning shame that had followed that woman's accusations. My wrists still ached from where the man had gripped me. My lips still burned from his mouth.
Rowan sat on the opposite side, staring out his window. His profile was carved from stone—jaw tight, eyes fixed on the passing city. His knuckles were still smeared with blood. He hadn't spoken a word since we left the restaurant.
The silence was worse than shouting.
Worse than the violence.
It was judgment waiting to be pronounced.
---
The penthouse swallowed us whole.
The moment the door closed behind us, something snapped inside me. The wine—still warm in my veins—mixed with the terror, the humiliation, the unbearable weight of being blamed for my own violation.
"Why did you drag me away like that?"
My voice was raw, cracked, barely recognizable.
Rowan stopped in the middle of the living room. His back was to me, his shoulders rigid.
"Why did you drag me away like I'm the sinner?"
He didn't turn.
The silence stretched, and something inside me broke open.
I crossed the space between us, grabbing his arm, forcing him to face me. Tears streamed down my face—hot, uncontrollable, endless.
"Do you believe her?" The words tore from my throat. "Do you believe that I—that I wanted—"
I couldn't finish.
He looked at me then. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but something moved beneath the surface—something that looked almost like pain.
"You should have let me apologize to him," I choked out, the words bitter and sharp. "For trying to seduce an old man. For standing there in this dress, drinking wine, existing in a room full of men. That's what I did, isn't it? That's what she saw?"
"Aira—"
"You should have let me apologize." My voice broke on a sob. "You should have let me get on my knees and beg his forgiveness for making him want to—for making him—"
"Stop."
Rowan's voice was low, rough—almost desperate.
I laughed, the sound ugly and broken. "Stop what? Stop telling the truth? You wanted proof, remember? You wanted me to prove I was yours, that I wasn't lying, that I wasn't playing some game. Well, here I am. Proving it again. Begging again. On my knees again, metaphorically speaking, while your world blames me for being touched without permission."
He grabbed my wrist—not hard, but enough to still me.
"I didn't believe her."
The words hung in the air between us.
I stared at him, chest heaving, tears still falling.
"Then prove it."
His grip loosened.
"You told me once to prove it," I whispered. "Now it's your turn."
He didn't move.
I stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to see the war raging behind his eyes.
"What happened?" My voice dropped, rough and trembling. "Do it. Kiss me."
He went completely still.
"If you didn't believe her, if you don't think I'm some—some seductress who deserved what happened—then kiss me. Show me. Prove that you see me, that you believe me, that I'm not just—not just a thing to be dragged away and hidden when I'm inconvenient."
His jaw tightened. His hands clenched at his sides.
"Do it," I pressed, the words a challenge and a plea wrapped together. "Or is the thought of kissing me disgusting now? Now that another man's mouth was on me? Now that you have to wonder if I wanted it?"
Something cracked in his expression.
"I never—"
"Then kiss me!"
The shout echoed through the penthouse.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
His hands came up—not to touch, but to stop. To hold me at a distance without making contact.
"You're drunk," he said quietly.
The words hit like ice water.
I laughed—a broken, hollow sound. "That's your answer? I'm drunk?"
"You are."
"You think this is about the wine?" I stepped back, wrapping my arms around myself. The cold that settled into my bones had nothing to do with temperature. "You think I don't know what I'm saying?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Didn't reach for me.
The silence told me everything.
"You don't trust me." The words fell from my lips like stones. Heavy. Final. "You proved it tonight."
"Aira—"
"When that woman blamed me—when she called me those names—you hesitated." My voice cracked. "I saw it. That moment. That fraction of a second where you wondered if she was right."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't—"
"You did." The tears came faster now, hot and endless. "You stood there, with his blood on your hands, and you looked at me like you weren't sure. Like maybe I had asked for it. Like maybe the dress, the wine, the way I was standing—maybe that was invitation enough."
"That's not true."
"Then why did you drag me out like I was the shameful one? Why didn't you say anything to her? Why didn't you—" My voice broke completely. "Why didn't you defend me?"
He had no answer.
That was the worst part.
He just stood there, carved from stone, watching me fall apart.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to stop the tears, trying to hold myself together. But there was nothing left to hold. The wine had dissolved the glue. The terror had shattered the structure. The shame had burned away whatever remained.
"Whatever happened tonight," I whispered, my voice barely audible, "I deserve it."
"Aira—"
"She was right." I lowered my hands, looking at him through blurred vision. "I was seducing her husband. I was desperate for attention. I was standing there in this dress, drinking wine, looking at every man in the room—"
"Stop."
"Why? It's what you believe. It's what everyone believes." A hysterical edge crept into my voice. "The shameless bitch who got what she deserved. That's the story, isn't it? That's the narrative. The wife who—"
I couldn't finish.
The world tilted.
One moment I was standing, raging, pleading. The next, the floor was rushing up to meet me.
Strong arms caught me before I hit.
Rowan.
He lowered me carefully, my back against the sofa, my head cradled against something warm. His face swam above me—sharp angles, dark eyes, the faint smear of blood still on his knuckles.
"You're going to be sick," he said quietly.
I shook my head, but my stomach lurched in agreement.
"Breathe," he ordered. "Slowly."
I tried.
Failed.
The room spun.
He was still there—kneeling beside me, one hand on my shoulder, the other braced against the sofa. Close enough to catch me. Close enough to hold me.
But still not touching the way I needed.
Still not believing.
I turned my head away, pressing my cheek against the cool leather, and let the tears fall into the dark.
"I hate you," I whispered.
He didn't respond.
"I hate you for making me love you. I hate you for making me need you. I hate you for standing there while the world calls me a whore and wondering if they're right."
Silence.
"I hate this universe," I breathed, the words slurring now, fading. "For making me suffer like this. For making me beg. For making me—"
My eyes closed.
The darkness took me.
---