48. Rowan
ROWAN
Bethany has taken over the kitchen like it’s a battlefield she intends to win. Sleeves shoved up, hair falling loose, she pours wine she absolutely does not need while insisting—loudly—that the rest of us do.
Lily perches on one side of the couch, legs folded beneath her, phone face-down on the cushion like she doesn’t trust it not to betray her. Like if she keeps it turned away, it can’t deliver bad news.
I’m on the floor with my back against the couch, knees pulled in, watching dust drift through the late afternoon light. It floats lazily, undecided, as though even the air hasn’t quite made up its mind about how this night is going to end.
“I don’t know why you’re so worried,” Bethany says, pressing a glass into my hand. “Justin said they’d be back by morning.”
“I’m feeling kind of queasy,” I admit, setting the glass down without taking a sip. The smell alone makes my stomach do backflips.
Lily snorts, then pauses. Her gaze lingers on my face, sharper now, like she’s looking past what I’m saying and into what I’m not.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
She delivers the question without any embarrassment. Just quiet acknowledgment of what’s already obvious—that Justin and I are a thing. I don’t advertise my life, but I won’t lie about it either. I won’t be shamed into shrinking something real.
“Pffft,” I scoff. “Not likely.”
Still, the thought settles somewhere deep and unwelcome. When was my last period? I try to recall and come up blank, which only makes my gut roll harder.
“Because it would be so cool if—”
The buzzer cuts her off mid-sentence.
The sound is sharp. Intrusive.
Bethany frowns. “Are you expecting anyone?”
The buzzer sounds again—longer this time. More insistent. Less patient.
Lily is already standing. “No one should be—”
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved.
Every instinct I have tightens, the familiar coil in my chest snapping into place like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“I’ll check,” I offer.
Bethany’s hand closes around my wrist. “Wait.”
We move together toward the door—Lily flanking the side, Bethany close enough that I can smell her perfume, something floral and too sweet for a moment like this. I press the intercom. The screen flickers to life.
And my breath leaves me all at once.
Dean Stockton stares back at me from the monitor.
Dishevelled.
That’s the first word that comes to mind. His tie is gone. His shirt is wrinkled and darkened with sweat, clinging in places it shouldn’t. His eyes are too bright, too sharp—like a man who hasn’t slept in days. Or worse. He’s a man who hasn’t dared to.
Without his office and his desk and the careful architecture of authority he usually hides behind, Dean Stockton looks smaller.
“Rowan,” he breathes, relief spilling out of him like he’s been holding it in for miles. “Thank God.”
“What are you doing here?” Bethany snaps from behind me.
He doesn’t even glance at her.
His eyes lock onto mine as if I’m the only fixed point left in a world that’s started to tilt. “We need to talk,” he says urgently. “Privately.”
Lily steps closer, her presence firm at my side. “You should leave.”
“I can’t,” his voice cracks just slightly. “Not until I tell you everything about that night, Rowan. You deserve the truth.”
Bethany’s brows knit together. “Maybe you should come back tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be gone by morning,” he speaks into the intercom.
His gaze never leaves me. It’s pleading now—raw, almost desperate—like this is his last chance to be heard. To rewrite something before it hardens into fact.
“Just a moment.” I switch off the camera.
Bethany lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Tell me you’re not about to let him up.”
I turn to her, helpless. “There’s so much missing from that night,” I whisper. “I just want… closure, Bethany. I deserve to know.” My throat tightens. “His son was there. This might be the closest I ever get to the truth.”
“I don’t like this,” Lily argues immediately, and the distress on her face makes my chest ache.
“Please?” I ask softly.
Lily hesitates, then exhales. “There’s one of him and three of us,” she reminds us. “I guess it won’t hurt if he comes up for a few minutes.” Then, sharper—“But outside. Don’t let him into the apartment.”
We all nod at once, as if the decision clicks into place between us.
I buzz him up.
We wait by the door, tension tightening with every passing second. When the lift finally opens, Dean Stockton steps out quickly, purposefully—straight toward us, like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly where he’s going.
And the question hits me, cold and sudden—how did he even know where to find me?
He approaches the door too quickly. One hand stays tucked close to his side, unnatural, guarded.
His shoulders are locked tight, rigid with a tension that doesn’t belong in a man who claims he’s here to talk.
His eyes flick once—just once—past me, toward the hallway behind my shoulder, like he’s checking if anyone else is here.
“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?” Bethany asks him.
He flinches.
Then he turns fully toward me, shutting the rest of the doorway out as if the other women don’t exist. As if I’m the only variable that matters.
“I did everything to protect him.” His words table out, falling over each other. “You have to understand—”
“Why are you here?” I interrupt, folding my arms across my chest.
His mouth keeps moving for half a second before he realizes I’ve cut him off.
“It was all William and Marcus,” he insists. “I tried to protect my son from them, but—” He gestures vaguely, helplessly, like the truth slipped somewhere he can’t quite reach.
“Again,” I say calmly, “why are you here? You said you wanted to tell me what really happened that day.”
He goes quiet. Something cold slides neatly into place inside my chest.
“Where’s your son?” I ask.
His mouth opens. Closes. His eyes meet mine—and that’s when I know. It was never Daniel he was protecting. It was himself. His reputation. His name. The silence slams down hard enough to rattle.
“Rowan—” Bethany starts, sharp with warning.
The dean exhales, shaky and sudden. His face twists—not with grief, not with guilt—but with resentment.
“You’re fucking untouchable,” he hisses.
His hand comes up. There’s a gun in it.
Everything happens at once—and somehow, not fast enough.
“Don’t,” Lily says, voice steady despite the terror tightening her eyes.
Bethany screams.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” the dean claims, panic flooding his voice now, the barrel wavering as reality finally catches up to him. “I just need Rowan to come with me. That’s all.”
Lily’s gaze flicks to the gun, sharp and calculating. Bethany shifts—just a fraction. Too fast. Too dangerous.
I step forward.
“I’ll go.”
Bethany spins on me. “Rowan, no—”
“There’s no need to hurt anyone,” I tell him evenly. “I’ll go with you.”
His shoulders sag in visible relief, like the weight of the moment finally has somewhere else to land.
“Let’s go.” He indicates the elevator with the gun, and I walk past him slowly, every movement deliberate, my hands held at my sides where he can see them.
Behind me, I can feel Bethany’s stare burning into my back.
We reach the elevator. And then, without warning—Bethany lunges.
There’s only pure instinct detonating out of her body. She slams into him from the side with everything she has, her shoulder driving hard into his ribs, her hands striking up and out.
The gun jerks skyward. There’s a flash, a crack. The sound is deafening in the confined space. The shot ricochets off metal, the noise tearing through my ears like shrapnel. The smell of gunpowder hits instantly—sharp and acrid and wrong.
Bethany goes down.
“No—!” I scream.
The hallway erupts into chaos.
Lily dives back, screaming, scrambling for cover as the dean staggers, the gun swinging wildly in his grip. His face is no longer pleading—no longer human. It’s panic now. Pure, feral panic.
Without thinking, I move.
I throw myself at him, screaming Lily’s name, screaming for her to get down, my hands clawing at his face. My fingers find skin. Bone. Soft flesh.
I jam my thumbs into his eyes. Hard. As hard as I can.
He howls—a raw, animal sound—and stumbles back, the gun firing again into nothing, into walls, terrifying us. But despite his pain, he refuses to let me go. I feel his nails rake my arms as he flails, feel his breath hot and desperate against my cheek.
“Get down!” I scream.
My voice cracks. My throat burns.
Behind me, Lily is sobbing—loud, broken, terrified—but she’s alive. I cling to that fact like a lifeline as the dean thrashes against me, half-blind now, roaring my name like it’s a curse.
The elevator doors slam open.
A familiar voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, saying my name.
It’s Silas. He takes in the entire scene in three seconds flat.
Bethany is on the floor, surrounded by blood. I’m locked onto the dean, who still has the gun in his hand and is thrashing about wildly.
Two shots ring out. Controlled. Precise.
They punch into the dean’s knees with surgical accuracy.
He collapses instantly, screaming, the sound tearing out of him as his legs fold and he glides to the floor. The gun clatters from his hand, skidding across the floor and spinning to a stop near the wall.
My body finally gives permission to collapse.
I sink to the floor, my legs folding beneath me like they’ve forgotten how to hold weight. The adrenaline drains all at once, leaving me hollow, shaking, barely upright.
Silas is on the dean immediately, his hands moving fast. Efficient. Brutal.
He flips the man onto his stomach, slams cuffs onto his wrists with a force that rattles the man’s bones. The dean is still screaming, still thrashing, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s finished.
Silas turns and sees Bethany. She’s on her back, unmoving, her face pale. Blood is spreading across her side, dark and wet, soaking into the floor beneath her. The sight of it steals the air from my lungs.
“No,” I whisper. “Beth—”
Silas is with her in a second.
He drops to his knees, already pressing his hands against the wound, firm and practiced. “Stay with me,” he urges. “Stay awake.”
Bethany’s lashes flutter.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused, glassy. She squints up at him, her mouth twitching weakly.
“Wow,” she murmurs. “Have I died and gone to heaven?”
The sound that leaves Silas is half laugh, half breathless exhale of relief.
“No,” he smiles softly. “You’re still very much alive.”
Lily crawls toward us on her knees, shaking so hard she can barely move. She reaches Bethany’s hand, clutching it like a tether.
“I’m here,” Lily sobs. “I’m right here.”
Bethany smiles faintly. “Good,” she whispers. “Because I really hate hospitals.”
I choke on a sound that might be a laugh—or a sob. Sirens wail in the distance now, growing louder, closer. Silas looks at me.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
I nod anyway. Once. Weakly.
My hands are shaking. My arms burn where the dean’s nails cut me. My heart is still pounding like it doesn’t know the danger is over.
But Bethany is breathing. Lily is alive. And the man who tried to steal me is screaming on the floor in cuffs.
For the first time since this nightmare began, the world feels like it’s tipped—just slightly—back toward balance.
And I let myself breathe.