Chapter 19
PLEASE TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME
ROWAN
Are you more drawn to a love that grows roots or one that grows wings?
ChaosInPurple: I dream of a love that grows quietly beneath the surface, unhurried, while I’m busy living my life. So if I have to choose, it’s roots. Every time, it’s roots.
There’s something deeply reassuring about the idea of something holding you in place even when the seasons turn rough. Not trapping you but anchoring you. Reminding you that you belong somewhere, to someone, no matter how hard the wind blows.
I don’t want a love that lifts me off the ground so fast I forget where I came from. I’d rather have one that grows slowly, patiently, mostly hidden from sight, until one day I look up and realize I’m standing in the shade of something strong enough to shelter me.
Roots mean choosing the same person again and again. Even on the days when life gets messy and loud and nothing feels certain.
And if love grows deep enough roots, I think you stop needing wings altogether. You’re already home and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.
“I cannot believe you did this.” Violet gestures toward the breakfast spread, which is now half eaten. “How did you even manage to get something delivered on a morning like this?”
Rowan: It wasn’t snowing this much when the delivery guy came.
My pulse jumps when she licks honey from her fingers, completely unaware of the effect it has on me. I force my attention back to my mug, to the coffee that’s still warm, to anything that isn’t the way her mouth curves.
It was at one of Charles’s breakfasts, the ones I begrudgingly attended, that I learned that Violet likes her croissant cut in half, drizzled with honey, and paired with grapes, walnuts, and goat cheese.
And that’s exactly how I ordered it.
“Okay.” She’s already taking another bite. “This is unreal.”
I had no idea something as ordinary as eating could be so… seductive. I almost feel guilty about how my thoughts wander in directions I have no business entertaining.
I grab my phone.
Rowan: This is exactly how you used to like it.
Every time I start typing, she reaches for her phone immediately, even before my message has reached her, as if she doesn’t want to lose even a second of whatever I’m about to say. An unexpectedly warm feeling of being wanted settles in within me.
“Really?” she asks, eyes bright. When I nod, she grins. “Guess I really do know my way around food.”
Every time I think she can’t surprise me anymore, she proves me wrong. It’s only the morning after she came home, and she’s already able to smile at the expense of her memory. But then again, this is Violet. The most relentlessly positive person I’ve ever known.
Once, that quality of hers annoyed me. Now, I consider it to be the best thing about her.
“Can I ask you something personal?” she says suddenly.
I feel the immediate shift in the air around us.
“I might be crossing a boundary,” she adds hesitantly.
I smile, ignoring the odd sensation developing in the pit of my stomach.
Rowan: I like it when you cross boundaries and come to this side.
I attempt to deflect the nervousness with humor and it works. Violet smiles back, but still, she stays quiet.
Rowan: Ask away, please.
She exhales. “You wrote in your letter that it would be your first perfect date. Does that mean you’ve never had a perfect date or…”
My breath stills.
Rowan: Both.
“How is that even possible?” Her eyes widen, brows lifting in that expression I once found comical and now find devastatingly endearing.
Rowan: You have to guess.
She studies me like she genuinely can’t understand why there wouldn’t be a line of women outside my door. Strangely, her shock doesn’t irritate me. In fact, I let myself sit in her disbelief for a moment.
Violet has never treated my mutism like something abnormal. That used to unsettle me before, but now I take relief in that fact. She keeps looking at me, waiting for my answer.
Rowan: Not everyone is comfortable going on a date where you’re staring at a phone screen the whole time.
I lift the device in a restrained gesture. Her frown softens as if she finally understands, and I hate that she understands.
I fucking hate how much I’ve missed because words don’t come easily to me unless they’re filtered through a screen. I picture myself shoving the phone aside in irritation, bitter at a world that demands a kind of communication I can’t give.
“That’s the stupidest thing. Even if it’s true.” Violet pauses, biting her bottom lip, clearly debating whether to say more.
I’m inwardly begging her to do so. I want to hear all her thoughts.
God, how badly I want that.
“How you talk doesn’t define you, Rowan. It’s what you say.” She hesitates again, then finally lifts her eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “And what you have to say is so beautiful that I could stare at my phone screen all day just to hear you.”
She looks away immediately, like she’s afraid she’s said too much.
In that one moment, my soul lifts clean out of my body and slams right back in. I don’t want to miss a single second of this, of her—willingly sitting on my couch, completely unbothered by my silence and choosing me exactly as I am.
Rowan: Thank you. You have no idea what your words do to me. Or my ego.
“I’m here to remind you of the truth as often as you need.”
My heart feels like it’s skating on the edge of something dangerous, too fast, too full. The thought of losing her hits me harder than anything has in a long time.
Rowan: I’m going to hold you to that.
As if we didn’t just dismantle each other with a conversation that will echo in my head for years, she nods toward the binder I placed on the table earlier.
“What’s that?”
I pick it up and hand it to her.
Rowan: This is for you. Last night you said you didn’t know what you did. Or if you even liked it. This is a glimpse of what you did.
She looks between me and the binder, confusion knitting her brow, but she doesn’t open it.
Rowan: I promise, there’s nothing bad inside.
Watching her hesitate now, it’s easy to forget how confident she looked moments ago. Easy to forget that she’s still the same woman who lost the most important thing she had—herself.
When she finally opens the binder, her eyes widen, as if in recognition.
Rowan: These are all the articles you wrote for your gossip column in the Cherrywood Gazette.
She adjusts the binder on her lap with her hand in a sling before flipping through the pages with her good hand. “How did you…” She trails off, then inhales sharply. “We only talked about this yesterday.”
I’m not sure how she would feel if I told her the truth—that I had someone working through the night, combing through years of archived editions, pulling every piece she ever wrote, printing them, and binding them together with care.
I paid more than I should have for the task. I wanted it done right.
Am I bothered by the cost? Not a bit.
Acquiring those digital archives, on the other hand, turned out easier than I expected.
The editor of the Cherrywood Gazette hand-delivered the flash drive to Elixir’s office within minutes of our phone call.
In exchange, I offered to hear the proposal that he has been sending weekly to my executive assistant for the last eight months—on how my company could benefit by acquiring his newspaper.
In reality, the acquisition holds no value for me.
But to get those files, I was willing to pay any price.
Despite all that, I don’t want her to see the reach or the resources or the ease with which things bend in my world. That’s not important at all. Right now, the only thing that matters is her. I want her to see herself and to touch proof of who she is.
The articles are arranged in reverse chronological order, her most recent work first. I want to give her every chance to remember, to meet herself again through the stories she wrote.
A part of me fears she might remember our date night sooner than I intend to tell her the truth.
But even that fear feels small compared to the need to give her back the pieces of herself she has lost.
As she reads, varied emotions flicker across Violet’s face—amusement, pride, something softer and more wistful.
She smiles, then bites her bottom lip like she’s holding back a laugh.
I remember the numbers my assistant sent me on the Cherrywood Gazette.
Violet’s column is one of the most read and most shared.
“Wow,” she whispers again.
I fucking love making her happy like this—unfiltered, surprised, and glowing.
“I have a pretty good sense of humor.” She looks up at me with a grin. “I can’t believe this whole article is about two tigers from the town zoo having a cub. I genuinely thought it was about some celebrity couple.”
She flips to the next page, still smiling, but instead of reading, she starts flipping through faster. Her brows draw together, and I’m about to ask what’s wrong when she looks up at me with hesitation written all over her face.
“Rowan… what do you do?” She pauses, then winces.
“I’m sorry. I should have asked this earlier.
You’re rich, right?” she asks carefully, like she’s testing glass.
“I don’t mean to be rude, I just…” She swallows.
“Has it ever… crossed your mind that… I chose to come to you instead of my friends because I knew you were rich?”
What the hell?
This time, I don’t reach for my phone. I place my hand on her thigh instead, squeezing gently for a second. When she looks up, I reluctantly move my hand away.
I switch apps to FYS.
SilenceInMidnight: Stop that thought, Purple.
She glances at her phone, then instead of speaking, she types back.
ChaosInPurple: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.
SilenceInMidnight: You don’t ever have to be sorry. Not for a second did I doubt you. I have money, yes. But I know you as Purple and I know you as Violet. Neither of them is impressed by my wealth.
She closes her eyes briefly, as if my words have filled her with deep relief.
ChaosInPurple: Thank you. That helps. I never want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.
This time I shake my head, a quiet laugh caught somewhere inside me.
SilenceInMidnight: If taking advantage of me means having you here, in my home, talking to me so freely and sharing the best fucking morning of my life, then please take every ounce of advantage you want. I’m yours for the taking, Purple.
My heart pounds as I type the message, but this is what we promised each other on FYS—the truth and honesty.
She doesn’t look up when she replies.
ChaosInPurple: You’re making me fall more and more for you every second, Night.
My pulse jumps, betraying me completely.
SilenceInMidnight: I’m right there with you, babe.