Flashback #9
The bathroom light buzzed weakly above me as I stood in front of the mirror, my trembling hands holding a damp cloth to the cut on my cheek. The sting of the antiseptic was sharp, but not nearly as painful as the bruises that covered my ribs and arms. My reflection was almost unrecognizable—swollen eyes, dried blood near my hairline, and the faint outline of a handprint on my jaw. I had become a shadow of the person I once was, hollowed out by this life.
"Hold still," I whispered to myself, dabbing the cloth gently on the gash. The faint smell of rubbing alcohol filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Every movement sent a dull ache through my body, but I pushed through it, desperate to clean up before anyone could see the full extent of what had happened.
When I finished, I wrapped my ribs tightly with gauze I found in the first aid kit. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now. The thought of staying in this house another second made my stomach churn.
I grabbed my keys and slipped out the door, ignoring the sharp protests from my injured leg. Driving myself to the hospital was a risk—I didn’t want anyone from Rowan’s family to see me—but I didn’t have a choice. I needed proper treatment.
The emergency room was quiet, and the nurse who checked me in didn’t ask too many questions. Maybe she saw the look in my eyes, the kind of haunted expression that spoke of things left unsaid.
The doctor, a kind older man with gentle hands, examined me carefully. "You’ve got a few cracked ribs and some deep bruising," he said, his voice calm but concerned. "You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. I’d recommend staying somewhere safe for a while. Do you have someone you can call?"
I thought about Jules, about his small voice on the phone earlier. But no, I couldn’t involve him in this.
"I’ll be fine," I lied, avoiding the doctor’s gaze.
He hesitated, as though he wanted to press further, but eventually nodded. "Take these for the pain and make sure to rest. If things get worse, come back immediately."
By the time I returned to the house, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the driveway. My heart sank when I saw Rowan’s car parked outside. A part of me had hoped he’d still be with whoever he was with earlier, far away from me.
I turned off the engine and sat in silence for a moment, gripping the steering wheel tightly. The ache in my chest wasn’t just from my injuries; it was the familiar weight of dread, the anticipation of another argument, another cold dismissal.
As I stepped inside, voices floated through the air from the living room. I paused, my ears straining to catch the conversation.
"Do you really think she knows?" It was a woman’s voice, unfamiliar and sharp.
"She’s clueless," Rowan replied, his tone dismissive. "She has no idea about her parents or what they did for us. As far as she’s concerned, she’s just here to play the dutiful wife."
My breath caught in my throat. My parents? What could they possibly have to do with the Vaughns?
"Still," the woman continued, "if she finds out, it could complicate things. Her father’s involvement with the accident... well, it’s not exactly a secret in the right circles."
"Let her find out," Rowan said coldly. "It won’t change anything. She’s a pawn, nothing more. And if she becomes a problem..."
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication was clear. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape. My mind raced with questions. What accident? What involvement? My parents had always been quiet, hardworking people. How could they be connected to a family like the Vaughns?
The voices grew quieter, and I realized they were moving toward the door. Panic surged through me. I turned quickly and slipped into the hallway, my heart pounding as I pressed myself against the wall.
The front door opened and shut, and I heard the faint hum of Rowan’s car starting up again. Slowly, I emerged from my hiding spot, my legs shaky beneath me. The living room was empty now, the air thick with the remnants of their conversation.
I walked over to the couch and sat down, my head in my hands. The pain in my ribs was nothing compared to the storm raging in my mind.
What had they meant by "the accident"? And why was Rowan so sure that I didn’t know anything?
My phone buzzed in my pocket, startling me out of my thoughts. I pulled it out and saw a message from an unknown number.
"If you want answers about your parents, meet me tomorrow at noon. The old coffee shop on Baker Street."
My heart skipped a beat. Who could this be? And how did they know I had questions?
I stared at the message, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Every instinct told me it could be a trap, but I couldn’t ignore it. I needed to know the truth, no matter how dangerous it might be.
The sound of a car pulling up outside broke my concentration. I stood and peeked out the window, my stomach churning when I saw Rowan’s car again.
He stepped out, his expression as unreadable as ever, and headed toward the house. I quickly deleted the message and tucked my phone back into my pocket, forcing myself to remain calm.
When Rowan entered, his eyes scanned the room before landing on me. For a moment, he looked almost surprised to see me, but the emotion passed quickly, replaced by his usual indifference.
"You’re home," he said flatly, shrugging off his jacket.
"I am," I replied, my voice quieter than I intended.
He didn’t ask where I’d been or if I was okay. Instead, he poured himself a drink and sat down across from me, the silence between us growing heavier by the second.
"Do you know what’s funny?" I finally said, my tone sharper now. "I’ve been hearing things about my parents. Things you seem to know a lot about."
Rowan’s hand froze mid-sip, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And where did you hear this?"
"Does it matter?" I shot back, my voice rising. "What are you hiding, Rowan? What accident are they talking about? What did my parents do for your family?"
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stood abruptly, his drink forgotten on the table.
"You should stop asking questions," he said, his tone icy. "Some things are better left buried."
I stared at him, my hands trembling with rage and confusion. "You don’t get to decide what I should or shouldn’t know," I said. "I deserve the truth."
Rowan turned to leave, but before he reached the door, he paused and looked back at me.
"You won’t like what you find," he said quietly, almost as if it were a warning.
And with
that, he was gone, leaving me alone once again with more questions than answers.
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