17. Drowning Again
Drowning Again
Rowan
I tipped the whiskey back in one swallow, the burn cutting straight to my gut. It wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was—but alcohol at least showed up when nothing else did.
“Rowan.” Anna’s voice carried that sharp edge only she could manage—half exasperation, half worry. She slid into place at my elbow, frowning at the glass in front of me. “It’s not even ten a.m.”
I shrugged, pushing the glass forward. “Breakfast of champions.”
She didn’t move to pour. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest, giving me that look that had once kept me from sneaking cigarettes behind the school gym. “Most people come here for coffee this early.”
“Coffee doesn’t do the job,” I muttered, though even to my own ears it sounded weak.
Her expression softened, but her voice stayed firm. “Whiskey at this hour isn’t a job either. You eating?”
“When I remember to.”
“That’s not an answer. ”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Anna let out a breath through her nose, grabbed the bottle anyway, and refilled the glass with a little more force than necessary. “One,” she said pointedly. “And then I’m making you eat something that isn’t liquid.”
The amber liquid caught the morning light as it splashed into the glass—too bright, too wrong for this hour. I wrapped my fingers around it anyway, trying to ignore how much like pity her silence felt.
And then a shadow fell across the bar. I looked up, the whiskey haze thinning for a second as recognition hit me like a slap.
I knew that face. Had seen it smiling down from campaign posters plastered on every lamppost in Harbor's End.
Sharp jawline, silver hair perfectly styled, the kind of expensive suit that whispered money and influence.
But up close, there was something predatory in his pale eyes that the photographs had managed to hide.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice smooth as aged scotch. He was already signaling Anna for a drink before I could answer, sliding onto the stool beside me with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to taking what he wanted.
“Victor Grant,” he said, extending a manicured hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
Grant. The same last name as?—
“Elias is my brother,” Victor continued smoothly, clearly reading my expression. “But I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.”
I shook his hand automatically, fingers clumsy from alcohol and surprise. His grip was firm, and practiced
“Rowan,” I managed, voice rough.
“Oh, I know exactly who you are.” Victor’s smile was all teeth. “The prodigal son returns. Quite the story. Tragic, but compelling.”
Anna appeared with his drink—something expensive and clear. She set it down with a thud that made Victor arch an eyebrow. “Everything alright here?” she asked, gaze flicking between us.
“Just getting acquainted,” Victor said. “Old family connections, you understand.”
Her jaw tightened. “Rowan, you need anything else?”
I raised my half-empty beer. “Maybe another. If we’re doing introductions, I should at least be hydrated.”
She snorted softly but didn’t linger.
Victor swirled his glass, studying me. “She’s protective of you. Admirable. Though I wonder if she knows what she’s protecting you from.”
“Let me guess—you?” I shot back. “Because that would explain the cologne.”
His smile sharpened. “Small towns have long memories. People wonder why a talented young man would come back when he could go anywhere, do anything.” He leaned in. “They wonder what—or who—might be keeping him here.”
“Maybe I just missed Harbor’s End’s unique charm,” I said dryly, gesturing around the bar. “Sticky floors, warm beer by noon, and gossip served free with every drink. Hard to beat.”
Victor chuckled, but his eyes stayed cold. “Or maybe you’re here for something specific. Someone specific.”
The words made my skin prickle. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” He took a sip, savoring it. “I know you’re talented. I know you’re running from something. And I know you’re staying in that cramped apartment above the bookstore when you could clearly afford better.”
I leaned back, gave him a thin smile. “You’ve clearly been doing your research. Next you’ll tell me what brand of peanut butter I buy. Should I be flattered or call the cops?”
“I also know,” Victor continued, his voice soft as silk over steel, “that you've been spending time with my brother. Quite a lot of time, from what I hear.”
The blood drained from my face. “We’re not?—”
“Oh, I’m not judging.” Victor’s laugh was cultured, dismissive. “Grief makes people do strange things. Seek comfort in unusual places. But Elias is… complicated. Damaged goods, you might say. Still carrying that torch for his dead wife.”
Something violent rose in my chest. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Like what? Like she’s dead?” His eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “But she is dead, Rowan. Has been for two years. And my brother is so mired in guilt and self-pity he can’t see what’s right in front of him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know Elias will never give you what you need,” Victor purred. “He’s too afraid of his own feelings, too wrapped up in propriety and what people might think. You’re young, alive, full of fire—and he’s treating you like a ghost.”
I snorted, though it came out harsher than I intended. “Wow. You’ve got me all figured out. Remind me, do you bill by the hour or is this family discount therapy?”
Victor’s smile sharpened, catching the hint of blood.
Anna appeared, refilled my glass, and shot me a look that said don’t take the bait . Victor ignored her entirely.
“The thing about small towns,” he said smoothly, “is that everyone’s business becomes everyone’s business eventually. People start asking questions. Making assumptions. That kind of speculation can be… damaging.”
“Shocking,” I said flatly. “People gossip in small towns? Stop the presses. ”
His eyes glittered. “That kind of talk can ruin reputations. Careers. Futures.”
“Good thing I don’t have a career, then,” I shot back. “Unless drinking counts. In which case, I’m thriving.”
Victor chuckled, low and satisfied, like my sarcasm was just another card he could play. The sound made my skin crawl — not because it was loud, but because it was quiet. Controlled. Like he was filing me neatly into one of his mental drawers, already knowing how to use me.
I tightened my grip on the glass, forcing my voice to stay even. “You think this is funny? Picking me apart like some science project?”
His smile didn’t waver.
“That’s what I thought.” I leaned in just a little, meeting his gaze. “So tell me—are you threatening me, or just bored?”
“I’m offering perspective,” he corrected smoothly. “See, I understand what it’s like to want things you can’t have. To feel trapped by circumstances, by other people’s expectations. The difference is, I learned how to get what I want anyway.”
“Congratulations,” I muttered. “Want a medal or just another drink?”
He signaled Anna with two fingers, unhurried, patient, like he had all the time in the world to dissect me piece by piece.
“You're more like her than you probably realize,” Victor said, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. “The way you question everything, challenge authority. She had that same fire.”
Something cold slithered down my spine. “What?”
“Your mother. Elaine.” He said her name like he was tasting something precious, something that had been taken from him before he'd had the chance to hold it properly.
“You move like her too. The way you hold your shoulders when you're trying not to cry. She did that exact same thing the last time I saw her.”
The jealousy in his voice was unmistakable, even after all these years. Even after her death. I felt something twist in my stomach, a combination of protectiveness and unwanted understanding.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Victor's smile was sharp as broken glass. “Because I fell in love with her the first time Elias brought her home. She was... luminous. Alive in a way that made everyone else in the room seem half-asleep.”
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a business card, placing it on the bar between us with deliberate precision. “But she chose wrong. Elias never appreciated what he had. Never understood that love like that is rare, precious. He took her for granted, and now she's gone and he's...”
“Still grieving her.”
“Still wallowing in self-pity.” Victor's voice hardened. “While you're here, young and talented and everything she would have wanted for herself, and he's too blind to see it.”
The way he looked at me then made something flutter in my chest, dangerous and intoxicating. Like I was something valuable, something worth fighting for. It was the opposite of how Elias looked at me—with careful distance, with guilt, with the weight of impossible propriety.
“You see it too,” Victor continued, his voice dropping lower. “The way he pulls back every time he gets close to something real. The way he treats you like you're made of glass, like touching you would be a sin instead of salvation.”
“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice rougher than intended.
Victor's expression softened, just slightly, and for a moment he looked less like a politician and more like a man carrying his own wounds. “I want you to understand that you deserve better than living in her shadow. Better than being treated like a ghost he's afraid to touch.”
Heat crept up my neck. The alcohol, the proximity, the way Victor seemed to understand exactly what I needed to hear—it was all combining into something reckless and desperate.
“He does treat me like that,” I admitted, hating how bitter I sounded.
“Of course he does.” Victor's voice was gentle, almost paternal. “Because he knows what I know—that you're everything she was, everything he lost. And that terrifies him.”