Chapter 5 Rowan
ROWAN
For a few seconds, Lila doesn’t move. One hand clamps around her upper arm, her fingers pressing into the fabric like she’s bracing against something only she can feel.
Her breathing comes uneven, shallow at first, then too deep, like she keeps trying to regulate it and keeps overshooting.
Each attempt makes it worse, not better.
The office tilts, not dramatically, just enough that I don’t trust my balance. I reach back and lower myself into the metal chair, my fingers curling around the edge until the cold stings my skin.
Half-brother.
Disbelief hits first. Then something heavier. Not hysteria or panic. A clean, burning anger that moves straight through the shock and replaces it.
“You’re telling me,” I say, my voice low, “that the man who kidnapped me is your brother?”
Lila’s eyes don’t leave mine this time. There’s no deflection in them now. No scrambling. Just an exhausted surrender.
“He’s my half-brother,” she repeats quietly.
My lungs momentarily forget how to work. I draw in the air, but it feels like there isn’t enough of it in the room.
“You told me he was your boyfriend.”
“I know,” she murmurs.
She doesn’t argue or try to justify it, and that almost makes it worse.
The fluorescent light hums overhead, and the air feels too warm now.
“You lied to me.” It doesn’t come out accusing. It comes out stunned.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she whispers.
I don’t answer right away. I look at her, really look at her, and it feels like I’m seeing two versions of the same person layered over each other.
The best friend who used to show up with coffee on my worst shifts.
And the woman who handed my schedule to the man who had me dragged across a warehouse floor.
Something tightens low in my chest. Not just anger. Hurt. So deep that it makes breathing difficult.
“You start with the truth,” I tell her, and I don’t try to soften it.
Lila stares at me. Her lips part like she’s about to argue, then close again. She draws in a breath and drops her eyes to the floor as if the concrete is easier to face than I am.
“I didn’t have another way,” she whispers.
Her voice thins, but it doesn’t collapse. It’s not weakness. It’s shame. The kind that comes from admitting you chose wrong and knowing you can’t undo it. She swallows, still staring at the floor.
“My brother, Jonathan,” she begins.
I keep still. My heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
Jonathan. The brother who came to dinner once and spent the whole night flirting with the waitress and making jokes about how Lila never relaxes.
The brother who always smells like cheap cologne and regret.
The brother who borrowed money from her last year and promised it was the last time.
The brother who shares her mother, but not her father.
“He got in trouble,” she continues. “He always gets in trouble, you know that. But this time it wasn’t… it wasn’t a hangover and a bad decision. It was real.”
My fingers tighten on the chair again. “What kind of trouble?”
Lila’s throat moves. “Gambling.”
The word fits too easily. It slides into place like it’s been waiting there the whole time.
“How bad?” I murmur.
Her eyes go glassy again. “Bad enough that he stopped answering my calls.”
That worse than the gambling itself. Lila isn’t ignored by the people who love her. She bulldozes through walls when she has to.
“He didn’t stop because he wanted to,” she adds quickly, like she can’t stand the implication. “He stopped because he was scared.”
“Of who?”
She hesitates, then forces the words out. “Loan sharks.”
The room feels colder again, and a faint chill works its way up my spine.
“They came for him,” she continues. “At his apartment. They were calm at first. Smiling. Like it was a business discussion.” Her voice shakes, and she wraps her arms around herself. “Then it wasn’t calm anymore.”
My stomach twists, and I press my palm briefly against it as if I can soften the reaction through touch. I keep my breathing even because if I lose it, I’ll be sick, and if I’m sick, I lose clarity.
“What did they do to him?”
Lila’s eyes close briefly. When she opens them, they’re wet. “They broke his arm.”
A sharp, bright pain sparks behind my ribs. I know that kind of injury. I’ve seen it. The way the body tries to protect itself after. The way people shake from shock, even when they try to act tough.
“He came to me,” she whispers. “He didn’t go to the police. He came to me.”
“Because you’ve always cleaned up his messes,” I return before I can stop myself.
The sentence tastes like bitterness. Not toward her. Toward a world that keeps putting her in positions where she has to choose between pride and survival.
Lila’s chin lifts in reflex, then drops. “Yes.”
“How much does he owe?”
“More than I could ever get in time.” The word time echoes.
“They gave him a deadline?” I probe.
She nods. “They gave him days. Not weeks. Days.”
I stare at the floor for a moment, then back at her.
“You could have told me,” I tell her.
Her eyes flash. “And what, Rowan? What would you have done? Written them a check? Put yourself on their radar?”
“I could have helped you find a way,” I insist. “You didn’t even give me the chance.”
Her shoulders rise and fall once. Her voice breaks, and she clamps down on it like she’s angry at herself for letting it happen.
“My mother is gone,” she whispers. “My father is gone. It’s just him. You know that.”
The sentence holds everything she isn’t saying. The fear. The loneliness. And the obligation that isn’t fair.
I sit back slightly, the chair creaking under me.
“When did Ivan come into it?” I prompt.
Lila’s fingers twist together in front of her chest. “He found me.”
“Found you how?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, and a shadow of humiliation darkens her eyes. “He just showed up. He knew my name. He knew my mother’s name. He knew things I hadn’t spoken out loud since I was a kid.”
My pulse kicks again.
“He told you he was your half-brother,” I mutter.
She nods, eyes fixed on my face like she’s searching for understanding.
“I didn’t believe him at first,” she continues quickly. “I thought it was a scam. I thought he was trying to get close to me for some other reason.” She drags in a breath. “He told me we had the same father.”
The distinction rearranges what I thought I understood.
“I grew up believing the man who raised us was my father, too,” she adds.
“That he was both of ours. Ivan told me that wasn’t true.
He had documents. Old photos. Dates that lined up with things my mom used to say when she thought I wasn’t listening.
” Her eyes hold mine. “And I ran the tests myself.”
My stomach dips with that detail. Of course she did. Lila wouldn’t accept a claim like that on instinct. She would need proof she could hold in her hands, numbers she could verify, something clinical and indisputable.
“You ran a DNA test.”
She nods. “Twice.”
I press my lips together. The betrayal is still there, deep and raw, but now it has context wrapped around it like barbed wire.
“He’s your half-brother,” I repeat, because my brain keeps trying to reject it.
“Yes.” She releases a slow breath. “And he offered me a way out.”
“A way out,” I echo, and my voice goes quiet.
Lila’s shoulders hunch like she’s bracing for impact.
“He told me he needed help,” she continues. “He told me he needed information from you for a business deal. Nothing physical. Nothing violent. He acted like it was…” She shakes her head hard, angry now. “Like it was a business favor.”
My eyes narrow. “And the trade?”
Her voice turns hoarse. “He told me if he secured the deal, he’d give me the money to pay off Jonathan’s debt. Enough that the loan sharks would go away for good.”
Bile rises in my throat. “He tied your brother’s life to your cooperation?”
Her eyes snap up, fierce. “Yes. And I didn’t have another option.”
“You did,” I counter. “You always have options.”
Her laugh comes out ugly. “Not when the option is watching your brother get killed.”
The room goes quiet again, the air turning dense and tight around us. My anger tries to come roaring back, and I let it, just enough to keep my spine straight.
“You still chose to use me,” I tell her.
Lila’s face collapses. “I didn’t want to.”
“But you did.”
She nods once, her shoulders sagging. “Yes.”
I stare at her for a long moment, and the pain is physical now, like someone shoved a knife into my ribs and is holding it there.
She was my best friend. The person who used to show up at my apartment with cold medicine and takeout when I was too sick or too exhausted to leave my couch.
The one who brought my favorite ice cream while I dissected bad dates like case studies and swore I was done with men for good.
The one who sat on the kitchen counter while I vented about long shifts and impossible patients.
That’s who she’s always been. And she handed me over to a man who turned my life into a hostage situation.
“Did Ivan tell you Arkady was involved?”
Lila’s eyes widen. “No.”
I watch her face for any sign of calculation, but what I see is horror.
“He never mentioned Arkady,” she insists. “He told me it was business. He made it sound like—” Her voice breaks again. “Like you were in danger from Kiren.”
I look at her, searching her face for something I recognize. “He made Kiren the villain.”
She nods, miserable. “Yes.”
That’s when it clicks. This wasn’t about getting information and walking away. If that’s all he wanted, he already had it. He didn’t just want access. He wanted me to look at Kiren differently. He wanted doubt to sit between us.
I swallow, the thought turning cold in my chest. This isn’t about leverage anymore. It’s about control.
“He didn’t want information,” I tell her. “Not really. He wanted access. And he wanted to see what Arkady would do with it.”
Lila stares at me. “Rowan—”