Chapter 16 – Tessa
Chapter Sixteen
Tessa
We get passed around after that. Everyone wants to meet Rowan’s mysterious girlfriend.
They ask how we met (college debate, I say, which is true), how long we’ve been together (on and off for years, I say, smiling, which is also true—in the most painful way possible), how we’re managing work-life balance (therapy and threats of arson, which gets the biggest laugh).
Rowan barely blinks through any of it. He answers everything coolly, as if this fake life is more natural than his real one.
But I catch the tells—the way his jaw ticks when someone asks if we’re planning to get married, the way his fingers press into my hip when I correct his answer about his favorite meal with something deliberately wrong just to watch him react.
He still hates when I’m right about things he thinks I shouldn’t know.
I sparkle. I’ve been media-trained by Satan himself in a Tom Ford suit.
I’m charming. I’m clever. I laugh just enough, tease him twice, and casually mention that Waffles is a rescue because I’m not above using a one-eyed dog for sympathy points.
But inside? I’m cataloging every detail, every unconscious gesture that proves some part of the boy I used to love is still buried under all that expensive armor.
And that terrifies me more than any ethics committee ever could.
The woman in pearls lifts her hand toward a waiting butler. “You two must be exhausted from traveling. Henry will show you to your suite.”
My stomach tightens, and my pulse stumbles. Suite. One room. I feel the air catch in my throat, but I keep my smile in place.
Rowan’s hand shifts against my back, his fingers spreading as if to remind me to stay still. “That’s very thoughtful,” he says, his voice smooth and steady. “We’re looking forward to settling in.”
I nod once, even though my chest feels tight. My heart beats hard enough to make it difficult to swallow.
Henry gestures for us to follow, and Rowan moves first, his hand firm against my back as we climb the stairs. The air feels heavy, and each step seems to echo louder than the last. My heels sink into the carpet as I move beside him, my hand gripping my clutch harder than I need to.
The hallway stretches long, lined with framed portraits and soft lighting. The smell of polished wood and old money lingers in the air. I can feel every inch of Rowan beside me—how close he walks, how his hand never leaves me. My chest burns from the effort of keeping quiet.
Henry stops at the last door on the right and unlocks it. “The Cypress Suite,” he says quietly, pushing the door open and stepping aside.
The space inside looks perfect—too perfect. The kind of room meant to impress. The kind that reminds you you’re being watched even when you’re not. My gaze lands on the bed, and everything in me stops moving. One bed. Large. Centered. Impossible to ignore.
I stand still as Henry sets the luggage down and gives a small bow. “If you need anything, dial zero,” he says before stepping back into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound cuts straight through my chest.
I turn immediately. “No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”
Rowan moves past me. He sets his bag on the dresser and unzips it, his face unreadable. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” My voice shakes before I can control it. “There’s one bed.”
He glances at it once, then looks back at me. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. My hands start moving before I can stop them, first crossing over my chest, then dropping to my sides. “You can’t seriously expect me to—”
“There are two sides,” he says flatly. “Pick one.”
The tension in the room tightens until it’s hard to breathe. My stomach feels hollow, and my pulse won’t slow down.
“Henry said suite. Suites have rooms. Plural. With walls and privacy and places to hide when your fake boyfriend starts looking too good in natural lighting!”
His hands pause on a perfectly pressed shirt. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to wonder if I said that last part out loud.
I did.
Shit.
“I’m sorry you made an assumption,” he says evenly, “But it’s not my fault you failed to ask better questions during contract negotiations.”
“Oh, my goodness! I’m not sleeping in a bed with you!”
He finally looks at me, and something dangerous flickers behind his eyes. “Then don’t.”
“Great. Perfect. I’ll take the floor.”
“Be my guest.”
I stare at him. He just agreed to let me sleep on the floor. Not even a token offer to be gentlemanly about it.
Bastard.
But also—I remember now. How he used to call my bluffs. How he never gave me the reaction I was fishing for. How he’d let me dig my own grave and then hand me a bigger shovel just to see how deep I’d go.
Some things really haven’t changed.
“You’re not going to offer to take the floor?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Do I look like I offer things I don’t want to give?”
Heat creeps up my neck. Because no—no, he doesn’t. He never did. When Rowan King offered something, it was because he’d already decided you deserved it. And when he didn’t...
“Fine,” I snap. “I get it. You’ll blackmail me into fake-dating you for professional leverage, but heaven forbid you humble yourself to a mattressless night for the sake of basic human decency.”
“Don’t forget who’s directing this performance,” he says quietly, finally turning to face me fully. “And who owes whom.”
Rowan moves around the room like I’m not even here. He unpacks one thing at a time, sets it down, adjusts it, and moves to the next. The quiet stretches until it feels like a standoff.
“You’re really not going to say anything?” I ask.
“I don’t have anything to add,” he says, still facing the dresser.
“That’s new for you.”
He exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to keep the peace.”
“Since when do you care about peace?”
His head turns slightly, just enough for me to catch the side of his face. “Since I realized arguing with you never leads anywhere useful.”
“That’s because you always think you’re right.”
“I usually am.”
The way he says it makes something in me twist. “You know, you could just admit this is weird,” I say. “Sharing a room, a bed—whatever this is. You could at least pretend it’s not normal.”
He turns fully this time, his expression unreadable. “What’s the point? Pretending doesn’t make it different.”
“It makes it easier.”
“For who?”
“For both of us,” I say, though it doesn’t sound convincing.
He studies me for a moment before speaking. “You keep waiting for me to do something wrong so you can justify being angry. You’re not angry about the bed. You’re angry about being here with me.”
“That’s not true.”
He raises a brow. “Isn’t it?”
The silence that follows feels too still. I break it first. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel.”
“I don’t have to,” he says. “You make it obvious.”
My jaw tightens. “You always have to win, don’t you?”
“This isn’t a fight,” he says. “It’s a room.”
“You make everything a power play.”
“And you make everything emotional.”
The words catch me off guard, not because they’re harsh but because they’re honest. For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us feels crowded, even with all the space in the room.
I turn toward the window because it’s the only direction left. “You don’t know me anymore.”
Behind me, he says quietly, “That’s the problem. I still do.”
I don’t answer. I stand there long enough to hear him set something else on the dresser before I force myself to turn back around.
His face gives nothing away, but his eyes do.
And that’s when I know this argument isn’t about the bed at all.
I grab my overnight bag and move toward the bathroom, needing space more than I need air. The click of the lock sounds too sharp, but I let it stay that way. For a moment, I just stare at the sink, trying to decide which version of myself to put back on before we have to face another crowd.
The mirror throws back a face that looks calmer than I feel. I dig out my makeup bag and touch powder to my cheeks, fix my lipstick, smooth my hair, and keep breathing until my pulse stops showing in my throat.
When I come out of the bathroom, the air in the room feels different. Rowan sits on the edge of the bed, head bent slightly as he rolls his sleeves higher. The movement is slow and practiced, the kind of ease that comes from knowing people are always watching.
He’s still in his dress shirt, open at the collar, the fabric pulled tight across his chest. The faint line of muscle at his throat catches my eye before I can stop looking.
His shoulders stretch the fabric when he moves, and the hint of stubble along his jaw makes him look less polished than usual.
I tell myself to focus on something else, but my thoughts won’t listen. I used to know that body better than my own: every mark, every reaction, every quiet breath that came right before he lost control. I can’t see all of it now, but my memory fills in the rest in traitorous detail.
He glances up, catching me before I can hide it. The look he gives me isn’t smug; it’s quiet, knowing. It pulls heat up the back of my neck, and I pretend to check on Waffles just to break the stare.
“Find what you need?” he asks.
“Trying to,” I say, even though the words come out unevenly.
His eyes drop once more, lingering just long enough to make me aware of every inch of space between us.
I grab the first dress I can reach from my bag and turn away, needing the distance more than the fabric.
Behind me, the mattress creaks as he shifts his weight, and my pulse trips over itself trying to keep up.
That pulls my attention up. “You think this feels the same as it used to?”
He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the mattress. “It doesn’t. That’s the point.”
I find the dress and keep my focus on it, even though my pulse has started to pick up again. “Then stop acting like it does.”
His voice is even when he answers. “I’m not the one stuck in the past.”
I almost flinch. “You don’t get to throw that at me,” I say quietly. “Not after how it ended.”
“I’m not throwing anything,” he says. “I’m stating a fact.”
“Then here’s another,” I say. “I’ll sleep on my side, and you stay on yours.”
“Fine.”
He doesn’t move, just watches as I step toward the bathroom again. The weight of his gaze follows me until the door closes. I can still feel it when I lean against the counter, breath catching as I reach for the zipper.
Five minutes later, I walk back out. His jacket is on, his tie knotted but loose. He looks at me once, quick and unreadable, before standing.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Almost.” I grab my clutch, steady my voice. “Try to smile once tonight. It won’t kill you.”
“Depends on who’s watching.”
His answer shouldn’t make my stomach turn over, but it does.
Rowan steps closer, straightens the strap on my shoulder, and studies me for a beat too long. The contact is nothing, just a brush of fingers, but the awareness in it leaves the air between us stretched thin.
“Let’s go,” he says finally.
I nod and follow him out of the suite, the sound of his footsteps matching mine as we head toward the next performance.