Pottery Event
Rowan’s eyes hardened further, a protective anger flashing beneath his carefully controlled expression. He pulled out his phone and quickly snapped a picture of the photograph. “I’ll look into it. Quietly. Maybe there's something I can find—someone who knows something.”
I sighed heavily, relief and anxiety twisting together in my chest. “Thank you. It’s been weighing on me, and I had no idea what to do. It’s unsettling, Rowan—like someone else knows more about my past than I do. Like they’re using it against me.”
He reached out, gently pulling me into him. I leaned into his warmth, the strength of his embrace quieting my nerves. His voice was steady and sure, murmured softly near my ear. “We’ll figure it out. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
I closed my eyes, the sincerity of his promise easing something deep within me. Still, I couldn’t entirely push away the anxiety, the weight of everything pressing down again. “I never expected life to be like this, Rowan. First my research gets torn away from me, then the danger, the threats… it feels like everything’s unraveling, and I can’t stop it.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me clearly, remorse flickering across his features. “That’s on me. All of this—Lucious Davenport, Gigi, your work being targeted. It’s because of me, Remi. Because of my world and the enemies I’ve made.”
“Rowan—”
“No, listen,” he said firmly, holding my gaze. “I brought you into this chaos, intentionally or not. I failed to protect you from it, and now you’re suffering for choices I made years ago. I’m sorry for that. More than I can ever tell you.”
My chest tightened at his words, at the honesty and genuine remorse in his eyes. “I don’t blame you,” I said quietly. “I made my own choices, Rowan. You can’t carry all the guilt.”
“Maybe not,” he murmured softly, thumb brushing gently along my cheek. “But I’ll still make this right. Whatever it takes. I promise you, Remi—this will end.”
I nodded slowly, clinging to that promise, needing to believe him. “What about Davenport?” I asked carefully, shifting to the thing I feared most. “Do you really think he’s behind everything?”
Rowan’s expression hardened again, his voice quiet but dangerously cold. “Yes. I don’t know his endgame yet—but he’s methodical, ruthless, and patient. Destroying your research, the threats, even that photograph—it all fits his pattern. He’s playing a game, moving pieces into place, trying to break me by targeting you.”
My stomach twisted. “But why? Why target me specifically? How would he even know about our past—about the twins being yours?”
Rowan exhaled slowly, tension clear in every line of his body. “He might not know everything yet. But if Gigi has aligned herself with him—and I think she has—then he’s got plenty of inside information. She could’ve fed him enough to know exactly where to strike.”
I shook my head, overwhelmed. “It just feels surreal. To know someone hates you so much, hates us so much, that they’d do this.”
Rowan was quiet for a long moment, his eyes intense, thoughtful. Finally, he took my hand again, holding it securely. “I’ve made enemies, Remi. Powerful enemies who don’t care who they hurt. Lucious Davenport isn’t just a rival businessman—he has deep connections in the military, political power, and the resources to get away with almost anything. But I promise, I’ll do whatever it takes to stop him. He won’t touch you again.”
I squeezed his hand, taking strength from his certainty. “I just wish things were simpler. I wanted to help people with my research, to build something meaningful. I never wanted to be caught up in… this.”
Rowan gently squeezed back, his voice steady and reassuring. “You will have your research back. You will get your life back. Davenport doesn’t get to take anything more from us.”
I nodded giving him a small smile as I turned to stare at nothing in particular.
The evening had grown calmer, softer, now that the kids were asleep and the house was quiet again. Rowan nudged me gently, his eyes warm and inviting.
"Come on," he said softly. "Let's get some fresh air."
I raised an eyebrow. "Outside? Now?"
He nodded. "Trust me."
We stepped out into his backyard, and I immediately felt my muscles relax. The night was clear, the moon high, bathing the garden in silver light. A gentle breeze brushed against my skin, lifting the tension I'd carried all day.
Rowan guided me along a winding stone path, lined with roses and jasmine vines, until we reached a small structure at the far end of the garden. I'd never noticed it before, partly hidden by ivy.
"What's this?" I asked, glancing at him curiously.
He smiled quietly, unlocking the small wooden door. "My secret place."
Inside, the room smelled earthy, a comforting blend of clay, paint, and something deeply calming. Pottery lined wooden shelves—elegant, simple pieces that seemed both sturdy and fragile at the same time.
"You made these?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
"Don't look so shocked," he said, chuckling softly. "Everyone needs something peaceful. This just happens to be mine."
I walked slowly around the room, my fingers brushing over smooth, glazed surfaces. The realization that Rowan had this gentle, artistic side surprised me—and captivated me, too.
"Want to see?" he asked, motioning toward the pottery wheel at the center of the room.
"Please," I whispered, intrigued.
He rolled up his sleeves slowly, revealing strong forearms, the lines of muscle visible beneath his smooth skin. My throat felt dry suddenly, and warmth crept into my cheeks.
He sat down at the wheel, grabbing a fresh mound of clay. I leaned against the counter nearby, watching intently as he began to work.
He wet his hands lightly, fingers sliding effortlessly into the clay, pressing and shaping it carefully. My heartbeat quickened. Something about the way his fingers moved—slow, deliberate, strong yet gentle—sent goosebumps rippling along my skin.
He pressed deeper, thumbs moving expertly in and out of the clay, coaxing it upward and outward. My eyes fixated helplessly, a rush of heat traveling through me.
I bit down softly on my lip, my breath hitching. A dangerously vivid thought invaded my mind: what if his fingers touched me like that? Slow, careful, deliberate—
Hell no. That thought needed to die immediately.
I cleared my throat, pushing away the inappropriate thoughts, trying desperately to regain composure. Rowan paused, looking up at me with curiosity, unaware of the effect he was having.
"You alright?" he asked, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Yeah," I said quickly, swallowing hard. "I was just…fascinated. Could you—maybe teach me?"
Rowan hesitated for a moment, studying my expression carefully before nodding with a slow, easy smile. "Of course. Here, let me set up another piece."
He reached for fresh clay, setting it carefully on the wheel. I awkwardly adjusted the fabric of my dress, shifting closer but unsure exactly where or how to sit. Rowan watched me quietly, amusement f
lickering in his eyes.
"Is there a problem?" he asked gently, noting my hesitation.
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