“Tessa.” His voice is quiet but firm. “We control the narrative. That’s how this works.”
I nod, even though my stomach is twisting. Because controlling the narrative means burying the real one. Theone where I walked away without explanation because I was convinced that loving him would ruin us both.
Rowan pays the bill without asking, sliding his card across the table before I can even reach for my wallet. Just like he used to.
But everything has changed since then.
We’re different people now. We’re better at hiding the soft spots.
Chapter Fourteen
Rowan
Alittle more than two hours on the plane and two and a half more in the car have been enough to test my patience.
Tessa hasn’t stopped talking since she stepped out of her apartment. The flight started with her spilling coffee, arguing with the attendant about Waffles’s carrier, and asking if dogs needed motion sickness medication. When turbulence hit, she talked to the dog to calm him, which only made him louder. She thanked the pilot when we landed, loud enough for people to stare, and never noticed.
The car ride has been worse. She’s touched every button on the dashboard, adjusted the air vents six times, and spent ten minutes rearranging Waffles’s carrier to give him more room. Every few minutes, she turns to check on him, whispers something, and apologizes when he whines. The entire trip has been noise and motion with no pause between them.
I should have sent a driver, but I didn’t trust her to make it on time, and I didn’t want to risk her showing up unprepared. Now I’m stuck with her, and my patience is gone.
The road narrows as the car moves farther from the city. I check the clock, knowing we’re close enough that she’s about out of time to fix anything.
“Get changed,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
Her head turns toward me fast. “Now?”
“Yes.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“Your outfit isn’t appropriate.”
Her voice rises. “Excuse me?”
“You’re about to meet senior partners,” I say. “You’re wearing leggings, a glittery T-shirt, and a hoodie. You need to change.”
She stares at me, waiting for me to take it back. “You could have told me that before we left.”
“I assumed you’d know better.”
She blinks hard. “Wow. That was rude.”
I shrug. She knows how I am.
“Pull over, then.”
“No.”
Traffic piles up behind us, but I don’t look back. She doesn’t understand that appearances here aren’t optional. They decide everything. These men read posture and price tags; one glance tells them who’s disciplined and who’s not. If she walks in looking careless, they’ll assume I am, too, and that assumption could cost me the position I’ve been building toward for three years.
She turns toward me, tight-jawed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t repeat myself.”
This isn’t a discussion. It never was. Every minute of this weekend has already been planned, and she’s part of that plan whether she likes it or not. How she sits at dinner, how she smiles when someone’s wife asks how we met, how long sheholds eye contact when Hale starts her polite interrogation—none of it can go wrong.
“Unbelievable.” She jerks the seat belt free and lets it snap against her shoulder. “One of these days, I swear, I’m gonna stab you with one of your own pens.”
