I frowned and continued scrolling.
A few pages deep, something caught my eye. An old review on a site connected to his work. Just one, half-buried under polished testimonials:Wouldn't recommend. He's not what he seems.
That was all it said. No details. No explanation. Just vague enough to be ignored, and just clear enough to make my anxiety spike. Beneath it, someone had replied. But the message had been deleted. Only the timestamp was still there.
I tried digging further by searching variations of his name, checking for anything that might link to his personal life, a past, anything that made him seem real. But after another hour of clicking through page after page of the same pristine, curated results, I came up with nothing.
I closed the laptop and tossed it aside. There was something here. I could feel it. I just didn't know what I was looking at yet.
But I did know that I needed to see Rowan. And I needed to do it soon.
Rowan
12
By the time I stepped into Marcus's flat, I was exhausted. I'd spent another long day in my classroom trying to organise lesson plans, and my brain was so fried that I just wanted to go home. But Marcus had been messaging me nonstop all day, checking in, asking when I’d be done, reminding me he’d “made plans for us.” By the end of it, I was too worn out to argue.
He was already at work in the kitchen when I walked in. He barely glanced up from whatever he was doing to say, "You're late."
It didn't sound like an accusation. But I still felt the need to explain. "Sorry. Lost track of time." It wasn't a lie. I did stay longer than I meant to. I'd caught myself sitting at my desk long after I'd stopped being productive, and my mind had drifted everywhere else even as I told myself I was still working.
Marcus finally turned to look at me. I couldn't quite read his expression, but instead of the scrutinising look I expected, he flashed an easy smile. "Figured as much."
His mood gave me pause. Usually, he had something to say about it when I was late. Some comment about how I was stretching myself too thin again, that I needed to stop letting work run my life, and so on. The same broken record I'd gotten used to over the past several weeks.
But tonight, he seemed ... nonchalant.
I hesitated at the door, watching him move about the kitchen with an ease that felt slightly off. I didn't know why. Maybe it was just because I was worn out. My tired brain must've been reading into things that weren't there.
I forced myself to shake it off as I set my bag down and made my way to the table where dinner was already set out. I could see the takeaway boxes in the bin, but Marcus had transferred it into proper dishes. I might've found that funny a few months ago. Tonight, it grated on my nerves.
He slid a glass of wine across the table to me before finally settling into his own chair and pouring a glass for himself. "Long day?"
I nodded and took a slow sip. "Yeah."
He didn't touch his glass. Instead, he watched me for a second before he leaned in slightly. "You've been working late a lot." Not a question. Just a statement.
I felt the weight of his gaze before I even looked up. Keeping my voice even, I said, "Yes, well. Term starts in four days."
He tilted his head slightly. "And here I thought we got things under control," he murmured, a hint of amusement laced through his words. The implication was subtle, but I caught it.
I set the glass down and chose my words carefully. "It's not like that. I have a lot to sort before classes start."
He smiled, but there was something I couldn't read beneath it. "Sure. I just don't want you to overdo it."
I didn't trust myself to say anything else, so I didn't.
The conversation stalled as we started eating, the quiet stretch of it more noticeable than usual. Marcus didn't seem to mind, though. If anything, he seemed to let it drag on purpose.
Then, casual as anything, he said, "You haven't mentioned Elias lately."
That sent a prickle up my spine. I kept my focus on myplate and forced a neutral expression. "Haven't had anything to mention."
"That's good." He took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. "I just wondered if he'd reached out again."
"No. He's busy. He's headed back to London tomorrow."
"Mm." He set his glass down and tapped his fingers lightly on the stem. It was such an idle movement, and yet it felt calculated.
