Epilogue – Tessa
Epilogue
Tessa
If there is one thing I have learned about Rowan King after all these years, it is this: when he is being suspiciously pleasant, my life is about to change.
“Wear the blue dress,” he says from the bathroom.
I pause halfway through applying mascara and stare at my reflection. “Why?”
“Because I like it.”
“That answer has never once been innocent.”
He steps out a moment later, fastening the cuff of his shirt, already dressed for war in charcoal slacks and a white button-down. His hair is still damp from the shower, jaw freshly shaved, watch gleaming at his wrist. He looks like money, control, and trouble.
“I’m taking my wife to lunch,” he says. “Must every gesture be interrogated?”
“Yes.”
“Exhausting.”
“You were informed before you married me.”
His mouth twitches. That is the closest Rowan comes to public laughter before noon.
I cap the mascara and turn to face him fully. “Where are we going?”
“Out.”
“That is not a location.”
“It’s enough information.”
“It isn’t enough information for people who were raised with survival instincts.”
He crosses the bedroom in slow, unhurried steps and takes the tube of lipstick from my hand before I can protest. Then he sets it aside and fixes the strap of my slip where it has twisted beneath the dress. His fingers brush my shoulder. Every unnecessary touch from Rowan feels deeply intentional.
“You ask too many questions,” he murmurs.
“You answer too few.”
“That is why this works.”
I should be annoyed. Instead, I’m watching his hands adjust the necklace clasp at the back of my neck because apparently, I am weak.
We’ve been married three years now, long enough that I know the categories of Rowan’s silence. There is irritated silence, courtroom silence, punishing silence, smug silence, and dangerous silence.
Today is secretive silence.
Which means he’s planning something.
That usually ends in one of three ways: expensive jewelry, emotionally destabilizing tenderness, or sex. Occasionally, all three.
“I have a deposition at two,” I remind him.
“You rescheduled it.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
My eyes narrow. “Did you move my deposition?”
“I improved your schedule.”
“You cannot improve my schedule without my permission.”
“I just did.”
I grab my phone off the vanity and look at my calendar. The deposition has, in fact, been moved to tomorrow. Notes updated. Client copied. New invite accepted.
I look up slowly. “How are you in my calendar?”
“I’m your emergency contact.”
“That is not how technology works.”
“It is when one is competent.”
“This feels illegal.”
“Then don’t report me.”
I hate how attractive competence becomes when wrapped in arrogance.
He picks up my heels from the closet and sets them in front of me, then crouches to buckle the first strap around my ankle before I can stop him. It is an absurdly intimate thing for a man who spent the first half of our relationship communicating through blackmail and tension.
I look down at him. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m being efficient.”
“You’re kneeling on imported carpet to put shoes on my feet.”
“I have strong knees.”
“Rowan.”
He glances up, calm and unreadable. “Tessa.”
“What are you doing?”
He fastens the second shoe, rises to his full height, then smooths both hands over my hips like he’s checking for wrinkles in the fabric and not distracting me from an answer.
“Taking my wife to lunch.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m withholding.”
Before I can argue, he bends and kisses me. Slow enough to silence me, thorough enough to scramble my priorities. By the time he pulls back, I’m blinking at him like an idiot.
“There,” he says. “You’re ready.”
“For lunch?”
“For whatever comes next.”
My stomach flips.
I know that tone.
That tone built our house, bought Waffles a dog trainer after the mailman incident, and once preceded him telling me he’d already booked us a two-week trip to Italy because I’d had a hard month.
That tone means decisions have been made without me.
I point a finger at his chest. “If you bought another horse, I’m leaving.”
His brows draw together. “Why would I buy another horse? We already have two.”
“Because you look like a man with horse secrets.”
For the first time, he laughs outright. Then he takes my hand and leads me downstairs.
* * *
We pull into downtown twenty minutes later, passing the restaurants I expected, then the nicer restaurants I briefly hoped for, then every possible lunch destination entirely.
“Rowan.”
“Yes?”
“We passed food.”
“We did.”
“So, unless we’re eating asphalt, I’d like an explanation.”
He doesn’t answer. He just reaches over, takes my hand, and kisses my knuckles once without looking away from the window.
Secretive silence.
Heaven help me. He’s in love and scheming again.
He says nothing for the rest of the drive, which is how I know he is enjoying himself. Rowan’s favorite hobby, after winning, is anticipation. Mine is ruining it.
“Are you taking me somewhere expensive so I’ll forgive you for moving my deposition?”
“No.”
“Somewhere sentimental?”
“No.”
“Somewhere naked?”
His jaw shifts. “Potentially, if you improve your attitude.”
I fold my arms. “I knew it.”
“You know nothing.”
Rowan turns onto a familiar street lined with polished buildings, brass signage, and the kind of people who walk quickly while carrying leather briefcases. My stomach tightens.
This is the financial district.
More specifically, this is Rowan’s territory.
We pass the steel and glass building that houses King & Vale, the firm he helped build into something ruthless and wildly profitable after he graduated top of his class. I matched him, to his eternal irritation, and took the same honors.
But then the car slows.
No.
Absolutely not.
It stops directly in front of the building.
I turn slowly to face him. “If this is lunch with your partners, I’d rather play in traffic.”
“It is not lunch with my partners.”
“If this is some networking ambush thing, where I have to smile at men named Preston while they ask whether I still practice, I will file for divorce.”
“You’d lose.”
“I’d poison your coffee first.”
“You say that every month.”
“Because every month, you deserve it.”
He reaches over and unbuckles my seat belt before I can slap his hand away. Then he opens the door on my side himself because, apparently, today he is both manipulative and chivalrous.
He places a steadying hand on my elbow and guides me toward the entrance. The doorman greets him by name, nods respectfully to me, and opens the heavy glass door. Inside, the lobby gleams with marble floors.
I’ve been here dozens of times. Holiday parties. Fundraisers. The occasional lunch when Rowan wanted to “borrow me for an hour,” which usually meant feeding me and then kissing me in his office until both of us were late for something.
And once, years ago, to watch Hale & Brooks implode after all the partners were disbarred in spectacular fashion.
But today feels different.
Today, he is too calm.
The receptionist brightens when she sees us. “Good afternoon, Mr. King. Mrs. King.”
“Claire,” Rowan says with a nod. “Has everything arrived?”
Everything?
“Yes, sir. About twenty minutes ago.”
My head turns sharply toward him. “Everything?”
He presses the elevator button. “Questions later.”
“I hate this version of you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he is right.
We step into the private elevator, and the doors slide shut around us. The second we’re alone, I turn on him.
“What is happening?”
He studies me for a moment, then reaches forward to smooth the line between my brows with his thumb. “You wrinkle here when you’re suspicious.”
“I am suspicious.”
“You’re beautiful suspicious.”
“Flattery is not a defense.”
“It has worked before.”
I hate that he is right about that, too.
The elevator rises. Instead of pressing the floor for his office, Rowan hits the button one level below.
I frown. “Your office is upstairs.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why are we stopping here?”
He glances at me, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Nerves, maybe. Rowan hides most emotions well, but I know where to look now. The slight tension in his jaw. The way he flexes his hand once at his side.
He is nervous.
That thought unsettles me more than anything else today.
The doors open onto a quiet hallway with fresh paint, new lighting, and only two suites. One belongs to a wealth management company I’ve seen before.
The other has paper still covering the glass door.
Rowan steps out first, then turns and offers me his hand.
I stare at it. “What did you do?”
He huffs a laugh under his breath, then reaches past me to peel the paper from the glass in one clean pull.
I stare.
Etched in polished lettering across the door:
Tessa Whitmore-King
Attorney at Law
My own firm.