The memory came to him without permission.
It always did.
Rowan was younger here—too young to be standing alone in a room that smelled like leather, smoke, and something metallic beneath it.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
Not gentle.
Not cruel.
Measured.
"You're listening," the voice said. Not a question.
Rowan:- said, "Yes."
"Say it properly."
Rowan straightened.
Rowan:- said, "Yes, sir."
The man behind him moved toward the desk, papers spread neatly, each page clipped, categorized. Control in physical form
.
"People mistake love for weakness," the man said calmly. "That's because they've never learned how to use it."
Rowan watched the pen in the man's hand. How steady it was. How nothing ever shook him.
Rowan:- said, "Love makes people stay."
The pen paused.
A smile—not warm, not proud.
"Incomplete," the man said. "Love makes people blind."
Rowan swallowed.
The man finally turned to face him, eyes sharp, assessing.
"Tell me," he said, "what do you do when someone becomes inconvenient?"
Rowan hesitated.
Rowan:- said, "You remove them?"
A slow nod.
"And if removing them causes noise?"
Rowan's fingers curled into his palms.
Rowan:- said, "You make it look like their choice."
The man's eyes gleamed.
"Good," he said. "You're learning."
The memory skipped—like a scratched tape.
Another room. Another night.
Rowan sat on the floor this time, knees pulled to his chest. He couldn't see the man's face, only his shoes pacing slowly.
"You don't get to feel guilty," the voice said. "Guilt is for people without ambition."
Rowan:- said, "What if they trust me?"
The pacing stopped.
"That's the point."
Rowan looked up then.
Rowan:- said, "And if I start to care?"
A quiet laugh echoed.
"Care is manageable," the man replied. "Love is not."
The hand returned to Rowan's shoulder, squeezing just enough to remind him who was bigger. Who was permanent.
"Never love anyone you can't afford to lose," the man said.
"Especially not girls who come with money."
The memory fractured again.
This time—older Rowan. Standing near a doorway. Hearing his name spoken like a warning.
"She's perfect," the voice said from inside the room. "Fragile history. Large inheritance. No one would question it."
Rowan's chest tightened.
Rowan:- said, "What if she breaks?"
The answer came instantly.
"Everything does."
The flashback ended there.
Rowan stood in the present, breath uneven, the echo of that voice still crawling under his skin.
He told himself he had chosen this life.
That he wasn't shaped—he was strong.
But somewhere deep inside, a quieter thought whispered—
Maybe he didn't learn how to love.
Maybe he only learned how to own.
And somewhere else, just out of reach of memory—
A truth waited.
Patient.
Watching.
Ready to surface when it would hurt the most...