Chapter Twenty-One
Melissa
I sat quietly on a bench in Central Park.
The city’s heartbeat pulsed around me. Rowen sat beside me, offering his silent companionship.
His presence was steady—a quiet anchor when everything else felt adrift.
My chest was heavy with the ache of dreams slipping out of reach.
I watched the world unfold before my eyes: people lost in conversation, joggers weaving between trees, children shrieking with delight as their bikes zigzagged down the path.
Each moment of joy stung as a gentle reminder of the happiness that felt just out of reach.
I took in everything around me, longing and uncertainty twisting inside me, confusing me. I wondered what choices had brought me here, to this pain, and why it felt so uniquely my own.
I couldn’t understand it. I tried, but nothing made sense.
He was gone and never coming back. I knew that logically. But my heart refused to accept it. He was a man drawn to danger, my partner and our child’s father, always chasing risks I could never comprehend. “How do I tell our child?” I whispered mainly to myself. “How do I explain what happened?”
“You tell him or her the truth.”
“But what truth? How I hated the life he lived, that I knew eventually it would kill him, or that he left when he should have stayed?”
Was it kinder to shield our child from the harsh reality, or was honesty the only way forward? My heart wavered between anger, grief, and a desperate need to protect.
“Life is about choices, Melissa. No one can see the future. Not even you. Travis made his choice. Don’t diminish him by second-guessing everything.”
“You’re wrong,” I spat, my voice trembling with anger.
“He was never given a choice. The club dictated his every move. The one time he chose me—truly chose me—that damn club wouldn’t let him go.
” I squeezed my fists, my nails digging into my palms until my knuckles turned white.
Rage flared up, sharp and unexpected, cutting through my sorrow.
I felt something inside me break open. For a heartbeat, pure animosity pierced through the grief, and I exhaled hard—a shaky, uneven breath that left my chest aching.
Hatred flooded in, burning raw and relentless.
“He’s gone because of them,” I choked out, voice cracking.
“They never cared about him. Or me. Not once did they ask what we thought, what we needed. All that ever mattered was their precious fucking club.” Tears threatened to spill, blurring the world around me.
I let myself feel it—every jagged edge of blame and loss—because I couldn’t hold it back anymore.
Rowen’s hand found mine, steady and warm—a lifeline in the storm.
I gripped him tightly, grounding myself in his quiet strength.
His presence reminded me that I wasn’t truly alone, not even now.
“You’re not alone, Melissa,” he whispered, voice soft and sure.
“No matter how deep the hurt runs, you don’t have to bear it by yourself. ”
His words lingered in the air, heavy with truth.
Silence settled between us, broken only by the distant laughter of children and the rustling of leaves overhead.
I closed my eyes, letting the ache take root.
Healing wouldn’t come easily—I knew that.
But Rowen’s hand in mine made facing the uncertainty ahead a little less daunting.
Vulnerability pressed close, yet I felt the faintest flicker of hope beneath the grief.
Rowen stayed quiet, his gaze fixed on the pond’s still surface.
I felt his support in the gentle way his hand stayed close.
The anger slowly ebbed, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
My body sagged beneath the weight of everything I’d lost. For a moment, the world was hushed, and I realized just how much I needed someone simply to listen to me—to see the storm raging inside me and not turn away.
A sigh slipped out as I let my shoulders drop. Guilt crept in, and I whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Rowen smiled gently. “No need to apologize,” he said, a knowing smirk on his lips.
“You and I both understand that grief is a process. Like the ebb and flow of life, it comes and goes—sometimes washing over you all at once.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin.
“It’s okay to be angry,” he murmured, his tone unwavering.
“You loved him, Melissa. Loving someone means feeling every piece of the loss when they’re gone. ”
“I don’t know how to do this.” The admission hung between us, fragile and uncertain. I felt lost, adrift in a world that seemed to expect so much when I could barely bring myself to move.
He met my gaze, voice gentle but steady. “There are no rules of decorum here. You do what you can when you can. Everyone will understand. If they don’t, screw them.” His words were both a shield and a challenge, giving me permission to chart my own path through grief and expectation.
I hesitated, searching his face for any sign of judgment.
“And if I just want to stay in bed and forget the world?” I asked quietly, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me.
He’d all but dragged me from the safety of my bed this morning, his determination unconcerned with my wants or needs.
His face softened as a trace of a smile lit his eyes. “Well, I think some time can be arranged for that, if you must.”
I managed a weak laugh, a momentary break in the heaviness. “Do you know how bossy you are?”
Rowen gave a playful shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.
“Bossy gets results—and it got you out of that room, didn’t it?
” he teased, his tone gentle, filled with an affection that wrapped around me like a blanket.
His teasing eased some of the tension in my chest, and I breathed a little easier, grateful for his stubborn insistence that I didn’t retreat completely into myself.
Standing, he reached for my hands, pulling me from the bench. “And on that note, I think you’ve peopled enough for my satisfaction. Let’s get you home.”
Too tired to argue with him, I didn’t mention that I no longer had a home. That I had nothing left.