22. Ultimatum
Ultimatum
Elias
T he first thing I noticed was warmth. Not just the comfortable heat of shared blankets, but the specific warmth that came from another person's body pressed against mine, breathing slow and steady in sleep.
Rowan lay on his side facing me, dark hair falling across his forehead, one hand tucked under his cheek like a child. In sleep, all the careful guards he carried during the day had fallen away, leaving behind something softer, younger, more vulnerable than he ever allowed himself to be when awake.
I watched him for a moment, memorizing the peaceful expression, the way his lips parted slightly with each breath. Three weeks of careful navigation had led to this—sharing a bed not out of desperation or need, but because we'd both finally admitted we didn't want to sleep alone anymore.
His eyes fluttered open, catching me watching him. Instead of the wariness I might have expected, his mouth curved into a sleepy smile.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep .
“Morning,” I said back, and before I could overthink it, I leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
It was supposed to be gentle, brief, just a simple good morning. But Rowan's hand came up to cup the back of my neck, and suddenly we were kissing properly—warm and unhurried, tasting like sleep and possibility.
When we broke apart, Rowan was grinning. “Well, that's one way to wake up.”
“I could make coffee instead,” I offered, though I made no move to leave the warm cocoon of blankets.
“Coffee's good. But this is better.” He stretched like a cat, all long limbs and satisfied movements. “Though I should probably warn you—I'm not much of a morning person until I've had caffeine.”
“I'll take my chances.”
We lay there for another few minutes, trading lazy kisses and quiet conversation, neither of us in any hurry to face the day.
This felt stolen somehow, precious in its ordinary domesticity.
Just two people sharing a bed and morning light, no complications or consequences beyond the simple pleasure of being close.
Eventually, my stomach rumbled loudly enough to make Rowan laugh.
“Okay, that's our cue,” he said, sitting up and pushing hair out of his eyes. “Time for actual food.”
In the kitchen, I attempted to make breakfast with more enthusiasm than skill. Pancakes seemed like a good idea until I realized I'd never actually made them from scratch, and the first few came out looking more like abstract art than food.
“These are...” Rowan paused diplomatically, poking at the misshapen pancake on his plate.
“Terrible,” I finished. “The word you're looking for is terrible.”
“I was going to say unique.”
“That's worse than terrible.”
He laughed, taking a bite anyway. “They taste better than they look. Mostly.”
I was attempting to salvage the next batch when I felt arms slide around my waist from behind. Rowan's chin came to rest on my shoulder, and I could feel his smile against my neck.
“You know,” he murmured, “there's something endearing about a man who can run a successful business but gets defeated by pancake batter.”
“I'm a man of very specific talents,” I said, leaning back against his warmth.
“I can think of a few,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck that made me lose focus entirely.
I turned in his arms, meaning to kiss him properly, but he was already pulling away with a mischievous grin.
“Hold that thought,” he said, and before I could protest, he was walking toward the living room.
Moments later, I heard it—the soft, hesitant notes of piano music drifting through the house. I turned off the burner and followed the sound, finding Rowan seated at Elaine's piano, his fingers moving across the keys with careful reverence.
I leaned against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt, just watching as he worked through the melody.
The morning light streaming through the windows caught in his hair, painted everything in soft gold, and I felt something settle in my chest that I hadn't experienced in years. Contentment, maybe. Or hope.
After a few minutes, I moved to sit beside him on the piano bench, close enough that our shoulders brushed. He didn't stop playing, just shifted slightly to make room, and I found myself humming along to the melody he was creating .
“This is beautiful,” I said quietly when he finally let the last notes fade away.
“It's something new. Or trying to be.” He flexed his fingers, studying the keys like they held secrets. “Sitting here, I could feel it coming back.”
“The music?”
“The music. The words. The feeling that maybe I have something worth saying again.” He turned to look at me, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. “I think I want to try writing again. Really try, not just going through the motions.”
The admission felt like a gift, like permission to hope that what we were building together was helping him heal instead of just providing distraction from pain.
“She would have loved hearing you play here,” I said, thinking of all the evenings Elaine had spent at this same piano, fingers moving over these same keys.
“I hope so.” His hand found mine on the bench between us, fingers intertwining. “This feels right. Being here, with you, making music in the house she loved. Like maybe all the broken pieces are starting to fit together in a way that makes sense.”
I squeezed his hand, throat tight with emotion I couldn't quite name. “It does make sense. All of it.”
We sat there for a while longer, shoulders touching, watching the morning light move across the piano keys. The pancakes were probably ruined by now, but I couldn't bring myself to care. This moment felt too precious to interrupt, too perfect in its simple intimacy.
For the first time in two years, the house felt alive again. Not because the ghosts were gone, but because they'd made room for something new to grow alongside them.
I'd been editing a track for a local band, trying to smooth out the rough edges in their harmonies, when my phone buzzed against the desk. Victor's name flashed across the screen, and my stomach dropped before I even answered.
“We need to talk. Now,” he said without preamble. No greeting, no false pleasantries. Just the clipped authority of a man who knew he held all the cards.
I almost hung up. Should have. But there was something in his tone, that particular brand of satisfied menace perfected after decades of getting his way, that kept me on the line.
“About what?”
“You know what.” His voice carried weight, implication, the promise of consequences I wasn't ready to face. “My office. One hour.”
The line went dead before I could respond.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at my phone like it might explain what fresh hell my brother had prepared for me this time.
The silence in the studio felt oppressive now, the half-finished track on my monitors mocking me with its incomplete harmonies.
I told myself I had a choice, that I could ignore the summons, pretend Victor didn't exist, keep living in the fragile fantasy that my relationship with Rowan was private, protected—nobody's business but our own.
But Harbor's End was too small for fantasies, and Victor too patient for ignorance.
Whatever he wanted, whatever he'd discovered or manufactured, avoiding it would only make things worse.
The walk to the municipal building felt like a death march.
October had painted Harbor's End in rust and gold, but the colors looked muted, drained, like someone had turned down the saturation on the whole world.
Campaign posters with Victor's face smiled down from every lamppost—that practiced expression of concern and competence that had fooled half the town into thinking he gave a damn about anyone but himself.
Every step was another weight settling on my shoulders, a reminder that I was walking straight into his trap.
The municipal building loomed ahead like a courthouse, all federal columns and granite authority.
Victor had transformed the third floor into his private domain, complete with glass walls that let him survey his kingdom while keeping the peasants at a safe distance.
The elevator ride felt eternal, each floor lighting up like a countdown to my execution.
His secretary barely looked up when I announced myself. “He's expecting you,” she said, her voice carrying the chill of someone who'd witnessed Victor's methods firsthand and learned not to ask questions.
He was already pouring himself a drink when I walked in. Single malt, judging by the bottle—something that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He didn't offer me one. Didn't acknowledge me beyond a slight nod toward the chair across from his desk.
“Punctual,” he said, settling into his leather throne with the satisfied air of a king granting audience. “I appreciate that in a man.”
“Cut the shit, Victor. What do you want?”
He reached for a manila envelope, fingers drumming against the leather desk blotter with deliberate patience. The sound echoed in the too-quiet office, each tap like a hammer fall. “You need to see this.”
He slid it across the desk. My hands were steadier than I expected as I opened it—until I saw what was inside.
Screenshots. Dozens of them. Grainy photographs taken with a telephoto lens from across the street, shadows and angles that managed to make even innocent interactions look sordid.
Rowan leaving Anna's bar, stumbling slightly, looking vulnerable and lost. Rowan walking down Harbor Street at night, alone, the streetlights casting him in harsh relief.
Rowan on a bench by the waterfront, head in his hands, the picture of a young man in crisis.
But those were just the warmup.