Chapter 4 #2
Dinner instead. Let me take you somewhere quieter than a coffee shop.
The pause before her next message is longer, and I can picture her considering the implications. Coffee is safe, public, and easy to leave. Dinner is more intimate, requires commitment, and suggests intention beyond casual conversation.
When her response finally arrives, relief surfaces before I can suppress it.
Rowan: Okay. Where?
I'll pick you up at seven. Send me your address.
Another pause, shorter this time.
Rowan: I can meet you there.
I allow myself a small smile at her caution. She's not ready to trust me with her home address yet, and I respect that even as I plan to have Polina locate it anyway. Information is protection and protecting her has already become non-negotiable.
Then meet me at Sovarin headquarters. I'll have a car waiting.
Rowan: That works. See you tomorrow.
I set the phone down and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling while my mind races ahead to tomorrow evening.
Twenty-four hours. Enough time to finalize the security arrangements already in motion and ensure Leo’s team covers every entrance and exit.
Enough to guarantee that when I take her to dinner, the threats that follow me remain out of reach.
Mikel was right. I'm making this complicated. But the alternative is walking away, and that option disappeared the moment she knelt beside me in that alley and pressed her scarf into my wound.
The following evening, I arrive at headquarters thirty minutes early, positioning myself in the lobby where I can watch the entrance without being immediately visible.
The building is mostly empty at this hour, the daytime staff long gone and the skeleton crew working late tucked away on upper floors.
The security team knows to expect her, and Leo has already confirmed that the route to the restaurant is clear.
Rowan arrives exactly at seven, pushing through the glass doors with her coat pulled tight against the cold.
Her cheeks are flushed from the walk, her hair gathered in a loose braid that hangs over one shoulder.
She spots me immediately, caution giving way to uncertainty as she crosses the marble floor.
“You're early,” she observes.
“Punctuality matters,” I reply, moving toward her. “Thank you for coming.”
“I almost didn't,” she admits quietly, her thumb brushing along the seam of her coat.
“What changed your mind?”
She hesitates, her eyes dropping briefly before meeting mine again. “Curiosity.”
“I'll take it.” The words leave me as I straighten, already turning toward the exit.
The car is waiting outside, a black sedan with tinted windows that Leo is driving tonight. I open the rear door for Rowan, waiting until she’s seated before closing it and moving around to the other side. The interior is warm, the leather seats soft beneath me as I lower myself carefully.
“Where are we going?” she asks as Leo pulls into traffic.
“A place I think you'll like,” I answer. “Quiet. Private. Good food.”
“That’s vague,” she says with a soft laugh.
“Trust me, moya.” I lift my hand and brush a stray strand of hair back from her cheek, the touch brief but intentional.
A faint warmth rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t argue.
Instead, she turns her attention to the window, watching the city slide past in a blur of lights and movement.
After a moment, she begins to hum softly under her breath.
I use the silence to study her profile, aware of the tension she carries in her shoulders and the way her fingers drum against her thigh in a rhythm that suggests anxiety more than impatience.
She's nervous. Still trying to decide if accepting this invitation was wise or reckless. I don't blame her for the uncertainty.
The restaurant is in Dilworth, tucked away on a quiet street lined with historic homes and century-old trees.
The exterior is unassuming, marked only by a small brass plaque beside the door.
Inside, the space is intimate and warmly lit, with exposed brick walls and tables positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy.
The hostess greets me by name and leads us to a corner table near the fireplace, where the heat pushes back against the cold that followed us inside.
The hostess takes Rowan’s coat, and as she steps forward, the navy-blue dress skims her frame, understated and undeniably attractive.
I note it without remark as she lowers herself into the chair.
She glances around the room, taking in the elegance with an expression that hovers between appreciation and discomfort.
“This is...” She trails off, searching for the right word.
“Too much?” I offer.
“Different,” she finishes. “I'm not used to places like this.”
“You should be.” I meet her eyes, holding the moment without elaboration.
Her gaze snaps back to me, surprise flashing across her face. “Why?”
“Because you deserve it.”
The statement catches her off guard, and she looks away quickly, her fingers finding the edge of the linen napkin folded beside her plate. “You don't know me well enough to make that assessment.”
“I know enough.”
The server arrives before she can respond, presenting menus and reciting specials. Rowan scans hers quickly, her brow furrowing as she takes in the options. When the server asks about drinks, I order wine without consulting her, choosing a bottle I know will pair well with whatever she selects.
She doesn't protest, but I notice the way her jaw tightens slightly at the presumption.
“If you don't like it, I'll order you whatever you prefer,” I tell her once the server leaves.
“It's fine,” she replies, though her tone suggests otherwise.
“Rowan.”
She looks up, meeting my eyes with reluctant honesty. “I'm not used to people making decisions for me.”
“Noted.” I lean back slightly, creating space. “Next time, you order first.”
“Next time?”
“Yes.”
Her lips part as though to argue, but she closes them again without speaking. Instead, she returns her attention to the menu, her fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the table that tells me she's thinking faster than she's willing to admit.
When the server returns with the wine, Rowan accepts the glass with a quiet thank you. She takes a careful sip, her expression softening slightly as she takes in the flavor.
“It's good,” she admits.
“I'm glad.” I note the way her mouth curves as she lowers the glass, my focus lingering there before moving on.
We order dinner, and the conversation begins to flow more naturally as the wine loosens the edges of her tension.
She asks about the restaurant, about how I found it, and I explain that it's owned by a former associate who values discretion as much as quality.
She nods, absorbing the information without pressing for details I'm not ready to share.
“You mentioned your father built Sovarin’s reputation,” she begins after a pause. “What is he like?”
The question pushes further than she realizes. I consider my response carefully, not searching for words, but choosing which ones to allow.
“Driven,” I reply. “Focused. He believed in building legacies that outlasted lifetimes.”
“Did you agree with him?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Even when it demanded more than it should have.”
She studies me for a moment, then asks, “Is he still involved?”
“No. He was killed the same night I was attacked,” I continue, my tone even. “The people who tried to kill me succeeded with him.”
Her fingers still around the stem of her glass. “I’m sorry.”
Rowan’s attention narrows, not with fear, but with understanding.
I lift my glass, giving the moment a boundary before it turns into something I won’t offer.
She doesn’t ask for more. That restraint tells me everything I need to know about her.
The server arrives with our meals, and we eat in comfortable silence for several minutes.
The food is excellent, as I knew it would be, and I watch Rowan relax incrementally as the evening progresses.
By the time our plates are cleared, she's finished her second glass of wine, and the wariness in her expression has softened into curiosity.
“Tell me about your family,” I request quietly.
Her fingers tighten around her wine glass, and for a moment, I think she'll deflect. But then she exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping as she decides to trust me with pieces of herself she guards carefully.
“My mom is a bookkeeper,” she begins. “She works for a construction company and manages their accounts. She’s been there for almost twenty years.”
She pauses, then adds, “And Ethan…”
Her brother.
“He’s an EMT,” she continues. “Twenty-five. Stubborn as hell and convinced he’s invincible.”
As expected.
“Sounds familiar,” I remark.
She smiles faintly. “He looks up to me, even though he'd never admit it. When our dad died, he was only seven. He doesn't remember as much as I do, but he remembers me trying to hold everything together.”
“That's a heavy burden for a child.”
“It didn't feel like a choice,” she replies quietly. “Mom was working two jobs just to keep us afloat. Someone had to make sure Ethan felt safe.”
“And who made sure you felt safe?”
The question stops her, and she stares down at her glass as though the answer might be hidden in the remaining wine. “No one,” she finally admits. “I learned to manage on my own.”
I lean forward slightly, closing the distance between us without encroaching on her space. “You shouldn't have had to.”
“Maybe not. But that's how it was.”
The resignation in her voice bothers me more than it should, a reminder of the differences between her world and mine.
She learned self-reliance from necessity and loss, which reshaped her childhood into a state of survival.
I learned it from calculation, and a father who believed vulnerability was weakness and sentiment was a liability.
We both learned to protect ourselves. The methods were just different.
“Your father's death shaped you,” I observe quietly.