Chapter 24 – Tessa
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tessa
He turns and walks off without looking back. No hesitation or second glance.
Because I want to win.
That’s what he said.
Not because he cares, not because he couldn’t stand to see me in pain, and definitely not because he still feels anything real for me. Just... win. That’s it. Strategy, not sentiment.
I sit here on this rock, blinking against the sting behind my eyes, trying to breathe through the ache in my chest that refuses to settle. The air feels too thin, and for a second, I hate myself for expecting anything else.
I’m an idiot for believing there was something in his eyes that he didn’t mean to show. For thinking that when he carried me, it was because some part of him still cared.
But Rowan King doesn’t care.
He calculates.
He wins.
That’s the difference between us.
I feel everything loudly, without permission, and he breaks it down into parts he can control. He takes what hurts and reclassifies it until it’s manageable.
I shift on the rock, wincing when pain shoots up my ankle. Maybe I’ll just stay. Let them find me later and write it off as exhaustion and bad judgment. The girl who believed in a man who stopped believing in her first.
My fingers curl into my sleeves, nails biting through fabric as I stare at the empty path where he disappeared. He didn’t ask if I was okay, didn’t slow down, didn’t look back. He just said what he needed to make leaving sound like purpose instead of avoidance.
And I let him.
I swallow hard, the taste bitter on my tongue. My throat tightens, not from emotion exactly, but from the effort of keeping every word I didn’t say where it belongs.
A twig snaps somewhere behind me, the sound sharp enough to drag me out of the spiral. I glance back, expecting Rowan. But it’s not him.
“Whitmore?” Camden’s voice cuts through the quiet. He sounds surprised to find me here, which is almost insulting.
“You okay?”
I don’t even bother pretending. “Yeah, Camden. I’m fine.”
He lets out a low whistle as he steps closer, hands on his hips, assessing me. “You’re really not okay, huh?”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “With diagnostic skills like that, why aren’t you in med school?”
He grins, unbothered. “Come on. Let me help you back.”
I consider telling him no, because accepting help feels like admitting defeat, and I’ve had enough of that today. But my ankle throbs again, and the last thing I want is for Rowan to find me exactly where he left me. So, I nod once.
Camden crouches beside me, sliding an arm carefully under my shoulders and helping me stand. His grip is gentle, the kind of touch meant to be noticed. Still, I let him. Because right now, it’s easier to pretend I’m fragile than admit I’m furious.
We slowly walk back toward the main house, the trail winding through the trees.
“You don’t have to hover,” I say when Camden’s hand tightens around my waist again. “I’m injured, not concussed.”
“Just being thorough,” he replies, smirking. “Besides, if I’m going to play hero, I might as well commit.”
Heaven help me.
By the time we reach the wraparound porch, I’m regretting everything: this walk, this conversation, this entire timeline of poor judgment that apparently led me here. Camden guides me to a cushioned bench and jogs inside, returning a minute later with a small first aid kit and smugness.
“You know,” he says, crouching in front of me and flipping the latch open, “Rowan doesn’t exactly seem like the nurturing type.”
I shrug. “He’s not.”
“You’ve got an interesting dynamic.”
“Do we?”
He raises a brow as he begins wrapping my ankle. “I mean, he looked ready to kill someone at dinner last night. And you? You were two seconds away from pouring wine down his shirt.”
I keep my face still. “We’re both dramatic.”
“Or just unresolved.”
Before I can reply, the door creaks behind us.
A voice cuts through the air, older, and silkier.
“Well. If it isn’t the lady of the hour.”
I look up.
A partner.
Harlan Masden. Late fifties, slick hair, and a smile that isn’t very friendly. He steps onto the porch with the kind of calm authority that doesn’t need volume to be dangerous. One look and it’s clear: This is a man who ends careers with less effort than most people use to sign their name.
Camden straightens immediately, posture tightening. I don’t move. I just adjust my expression, slotting into the version of myself that looks composed, even when my heart is doing damage control.
Masden’s gaze flicks from Camden to me, then down to my ankle. “Everything all right?”
I flash him a practiced, polite smile. “Just a minor sprain. Nothing serious.”
He steps closer, eyes sharp as he studies me, and I can feel the weight of it, the assessment behind the courtesy. “You and Mr. King have certainly made an impression this weekend. Quite the pairing.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” My voice is steady.
“It’s rare to see him involved,” he says, tone dipping just enough to suggest interest. “I always wondered if he had a weak spot.”
I don’t blink. “I wouldn’t call it weakness.”
Camden snorts softly beside me, but I don’t look at him. I keep my attention where it belongs—on the man who could ruin Rowan’s chances with a single sentence.
Masden hums, gaze lingering. “So, Ms. Whitmore. How long have you two been together?”
There’s a pause that stretches too long.
This isn’t curiosity.
This is a test.
And Rowan’s not here to intercept, not here to smooth the story or twist it into something that benefits him. It’s just me, sitting on this porch with an ankle that hurts and a lie that suddenly feels too fragile to hold.
So, I channel everything he’s ever taught me—every lesson in silence in how to weaponize truth until it cuts clean. My pulse climbs, but I lean back against the bench anyway, letting my shoulders drop, tilting my head just enough to look at ease.
“Since undergrad,” I say, calm and quiet. “We had a bit of a hiatus.”
Masden smiles, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah. A rekindled flame.”
I match it. “More like unfinished business.”
His gaze sharpens—interest or suspicion, hard to tell. “And now?”
Now my heartbeat is a steady drum in my throat..
Masden’s smile shifts, thinner. “Tell me, Ms. Whitmore, was the reunion intentional?”
I tilt my head slightly, crossing one leg over the other to buy a second. “We call it fate,” I say.
Camden gives a small, amused noise beside me, but I don’t look at him. My focus stays locked on Masden’s eyes, the way they don’t blink.
“I’m curious,” Masden says. “Is this arrangement of yours rooted in something more strategic… or emotional?”
There it is.
The real question.
I breathe once, slowly. Then I smile. “What part of law school taught you those were mutually exclusive?”
Camden mutters, “Damn.”
Masden chuckles, polite but empty. “Touché.”
He steps closer, hands clasped behind his back. The air tightens around us. “Forgive me for prying, Ms. Whitmore. You understand, of course, we’re always observing. Assessing strengths and whatnot.”
“You mean gossip.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “Wrapped in due diligence.”
Camden shifts beside me, realizing too late this conversation no longer includes him.
Masden’s grin grows satisfied. “You’re sharp.”
“I had excellent teachers,” I say smoothly.
His brow lifts, just enough to signal approval. “I can see why Mr. King indulges you.”
Indulges.
My jaw tightens. I force the breath in, hold it, and smooth my expression before he can see the slip. I can’t give him anything—not the sting, not the heat crawling up my throat.
I fold my hands neatly in my lap. My nails bite into my palms to keep me focused. “Rowan doesn’t indulge anyone. He commits. Or he cuts ties. There’s no in between.”
Masden tilts his head. “So which one are you?”
I smile again, every millimeter of it precise. “I’m the reason he’ll make partner early.”
His eyes flicker, just once, before his mouth smooths back into a polite curve. Point scored.
Then—footsteps.
Familiar enough to steal the air from my lungs.
The temperature shifts.
Rowan.
The one person who always shows up a beat too late.
I don’t turn.
I just reach back, my fingers brushing his wrist first, then the cuff of his shirt, feeling the steady pulse beneath fabric and the heat of skin I shouldn’t still recognize.
And I pull.
Rowan stops cold behind me, and for a single, suspended second, the entire porch goes silent.
His chest brushes the back of the bench.
His hands hover, not quite touching. He’s scanning the scene before deciding what to do.
Camden.
Masden.
Me.
The hierarchy is clear. The threat assessment clearer.
I turn slowly, and look up at him.
His eyes find mine immediately. There’s recognition in them, the kind that burns. He doesn’t need an explanation; he just needs the cue.
I raise my brows slightly and turn in my chair, a silent instruction, and let my hand drift up his chest.
And Rowan?
He gets it.
Instantly.
He steps forward, closing the distance. One arm slides down my shoulders, anchoring me. The other finds the back of my neck, fingers firm, and steady.
And then—he kisses me.
Not politely.
Not for show.
It’s pressure and control, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it’s already decided it has it. The world narrows to the press of his mouth against mine, the sound of breath shared, the faint scrape of his thumb at my jaw when I move closer.
His lips part mine with practiced confidence; his grip tightens; his breath hits my skin, uneven for once.
And I let him.
Because right now, I need this to look real. I need him to want me like this—for them to see it, to believe it.
My hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair there, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. I press closer.
He groans but it’s there, rough at the edge of control.
For a moment, everything else disappears. Just heat, motion, and the unmistakable sound of Camden choking on his own disbelief.
Then Rowan pulls back.