Page 82 of Stolen Harmony
He didn’t look at me right away. Not until his cufflinks were fastened, his tie tugged back into place, the last marks of disarray smoothed over. Only then did he glance down, eyes cool, like he was assessing the state of the room rather than the state of me.
“Where’s my jacket?” His tone was casual, practiced neutrality, as if the last hour hadn’t happened. As if I hadn’t been bent beneath him, begging like my life depended on it.
I pulled the sheet up over my hips, half-shield, half-shame, and pointed to where it had landed on the chair. He retrieved it, slipped it on, and smoothed the lapels with that same meticulous calm. He looked like a man about to step onto a podium, not one who had just undone me in every possible way.
My clothes were scattered across the floor, half-hidden under his polished shoes. I bent to collect them, hands shaking more than I wanted them to. My jeans resisted when I tried to pull them on, denim catching on damp skin, a stark reminder of what had just been done to me.
Victor watched without comment. He let the silence stretch until it scraped against my nerves, until I felt smaller than I had when I’d first walked into the bar. Then, finally, he reached for his glass from the nightstand and drained the last sip with a satisfied hum.
“You’ll want to wash those sheets,” he said idly, setting the glass down again. The words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t kind either. They were something in between—dismissal masquerading as advice.
I tugged my shirt over my head, fabric sticking to the sweat cooling on my skin. He stepped past me to adjust the curtain, letting a sliver of light cut into the room. The gesture shouldhave been nothing, but it felt deliberate, like he wanted the morning to touch me while he remained in shadow.
When he finally spoke again, it wasn’t about me at all. “This place has potential,” he said, eyes scanning the corners of the room as if he were surveying real estate. “Tucked away, close to the center of town. Convenient.”
Convenient for what, he didn’t say.
I swallowed hard, throat dry, and busied myself with finding my socks. They’d ended up half under the bed, damp with sweat and dust, like the rest of me—dirty, discarded. By the time I straightened, Victor was at the door, hand resting lightly on the frame, body language already halfway gone.
He looked back at me finally, that politician’s smile ghosting across his mouth. Polite, charming, meaningless. “I’ll see you around, Rowan.”
Not a promise. Not a threat. Just words, empty enough to make me want to fill them with meaning that wasn’t there.
The door closed behind him with the soft click of inevitability, leaving me standing in the wreckage of my own choices, fully dressed but feeling stripped bare all over again.
Chapter 18
Falling
Elias
Aweek slipped by before I found myself once again in Dr. Fields’s softly lit office, the smell of chamomile tea and old books settling my nerves more than I’d admit.
She glanced at her notes, then looked up with that calm, steady gaze of hers. “You mentioned a near-kiss last time,” she said, voice carrying that gentle authority that somehow made secrets feel lighter. “Has that been on your mind?”
My laugh was low and humorless, catching in my throat like gravel. “Constantly.”
She tilted her head in that way she had, encouraging without pushing, creating space for words I wasn't sure I was ready to say. The silence stretched between us, comfortable but loaded, waiting for me to find the courage to dive deeper into waters I'd been afraid to test.
“What stopped you?”
“Common sense, I guess. The knowledge that kissing my dead wife's son probably crosses every line of decent human behavior.”
“But you wanted to.”
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”
“How does that feel to admit?”
“Terrifying. Liberating. Like I'm losing my mind and finding it at the same time.” I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the silver strands that reminded me daily of the gap between Rowan's age and mine. “It's not like I've suddenly forgotten who I am. I've never looked at men that way before.”
Maren leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful but not judgmental. “Sexuality isn't a static point on a line, Elias. It's a spectrum, and people can find themselves in different places at different times in their lives. You're allowed to discover something new about yourself.”
“Even at fifty?”
“Especially at fifty. You're old enough to know the difference between genuine attraction and temporary confusion.”
I shifted in my chair, suddenly restless, like my body couldn't contain the energy of what we were discussing. “I don't know if it's attraction to men in general, or if it's just Rowan specifically. And then there's Elaine, and the guilt, and the fact that wanting him feels like betraying her memory.”
