The line went silent for a few seconds before Mercy asked, “You breaking away?”
I refused to answer directly, sidestepping the trap. “Tell your wife I’ll be there around three.” Disconnecting the call, I leaned back in Sinclair’s chair and sighed. A heaviness settled in my chest, the weight of secrets pressing down as I wondered if I’d ever truly escape Sinclair’s shadow. The stakes felt higher than ever—freedom just beyond reach—yet I remained haunted by the fear of what breaking away might cost. If all went well, by this evening, I would be one step closer to distancing myself from Sinclair and his games.
Chapter Thirty
Melissa
“What are we doing here?” I asked, hesitating in the entryway of the spacious penthouse at Davenport Tower. The place was stunning—everywhere I looked, sunlight spilled in through towering windows, making the marble interior glimmer. The faint aroma of fresh paint lingered in the air as my footsteps echoed softly against the polished hardwood. The space was so quiet it felt like even my breath might disturb it.
Rowen barely glanced at me as he strode toward the state-of-the-art kitchen—marble countertops gleaming, a farmhouse sink catching the light, and a chef’s stove promising meals he probably wouldn’t cook. “I’m thinking of buying it,” he muttered, but there was something guarded about the way he said it, tone distant, his shoulders tense. I wondered if he was serious or just showing off, trying to impress me, or maybe distract himself from something left unsaid.
I lingered by the window, letting my gaze sweep over the vast, echoing penthouse. My words came out softer than I intended, betraying my uncertainty. “This place is rather big for a single man, don’t you think?” My fingers drifted along the cold marble windowsill as I struggled to picture him living here alone.
Rowen’s footsteps echoed across the hardwood as he moved closer, stopping just beside me. His voice softened, his eyes meeting mine with a rare vulnerability. “Not for a family.” He let the words settle between us, searching my face for a reaction. I sighed, shifting my weight. My hands instinctively fidgeted with the strap of my purse—a familiar gesture when I felt exposed.
“Rowen, I told you I wasn’t ready,” I murmured, hoping he’d hear the plea beneath my hesitation.
He paused, glancing around the spacious living room, taking in the high ceilings and the endless possibilities. “I know,” he said quietly, careful not to push. “And I won’t force you into anything.” He took a deep breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little as he spoke his truth. “But I can’t stay at Sinclair’s anymore. If I buy this place, I want you to move in with me.” His gaze lingered on mine, earnest and unwavering. “You said yourself you want nothing to do with the clubs or all that goes with them. And honestly, I don’t either.” His voice grew firmer, steadier—as if he was convincing himself as much as me. “I’m going to be forty-five this year, and I want whatever time I have left to be on my own terms.” He gestured toward the windows overlooking the skyline. “This place is close enough to NYU—I won’t have to commute. And there’s an office building two blocks from here that’d be perfect for you to open a new practice.”
The hope in his voice was quiet but persistent, a longing for a life that was finally his own.
My throat tightened. I looked down at my hands, twisting my fingers as I nervously searched for the right words. The fear of change pressed against the fragile hope his offer had sparked.
“What about Danika?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Rowen’s lips curved into a gentle smile, the tension between us breaking for a moment. “There’s a freshly painted room just waiting for her to scribble all over the walls.”
The image made me smirk, warmth blooming in my chest despite my worries. He stepped closer, his tone reassuring. “And if you don’t like this place, I’ll find another. What matters most is that we find a space where we can finally live on our own terms.”
His sincerity settled over me like a promise, the first steps toward a future built on trust—and a hard-won freedom neither of us had known before.
A radiant woman appeared in the doorway, her dark brown hair cascading over a soft cashmere sweater that hugged her pregnant belly. Her skin glowed with the kind of serenity reserved for those who seem to have already made peace with chaos. A warm, approachable smile lit her face, and for a moment the penthouse felt less intimidating, more like a place people actually lived. She leaned comfortably against the doorframe, her presence quietly commanding but inviting. “And there’s a daycare on site,” she announced, her voice carrying an easy confidence. Her eyes flicked to Rowen with familiarity and a glint of mischief. “Hi, I’m Largo. My husband owns the building. Hey, Rowen.”
Rowen nodded, a hint of respect in his posture. “Mrs. Davenport,” he replied, his tone formal but not unfriendly, acknowledging her with a small, genuine tilt of his head.
Largo stepped further into the room, glancing around with a knowing eye as if seeing through the gleaming surfaces to the lives that could fill this space. “This place has everything you could need and then some,” she said, her hand unconsciously settling on her stomach in an affectionate gesture. “Mercy thought of everything.” Her gaze softened, pride and fondness mingling in her expression.
The familiar name sent a ripple of anxiety through me. I hesitated before asking, “Mercy?” My voice was tentative, eyes darting between Rowen and Largo, praying I misheard the woman.
Largo’s lips quirked, amused by my confusion. “My husband’s club name,” she explained, voice gentle but matter-of-fact. “He’s the VP of the Soulless Sinners. The same club Pippen belongs to.”
A subtle chill prickled along my arms as I processed her words.
The club—again. No matter how many times I tried to distance myself, the constant threat of being pulled back into a world I’d fought to leave behind was never far behind.
I caught Rowen’s eye, searching for reassurance as my fingers curled tightly around the strap of my purse, anchoring myself, and I forced a polite nod in Largo’s direction. “I see,” I murmured, voice strained with the weight of my fears. I shook my head just enough for Rowen to notice, then turned to him, my words trembling at the edges. “I think I’ve seen enough. I’d like to go now.”
His hand found mine—rough and warm, the calluses gently scraping my palm—and, without a word, he guided me out of the penthouse and through the marble lobby, out onto the evening sidewalk. The air outside was brisk, carrying the tang of rain on concrete, distant exhaust, and the earthy scent that rose from the city after a storm. Streetlights flickered across puddles, and the hum of traffic blended with laughter from a nearby café. I squeezed Rowen’s hand, feeling his steady grip, and closed my eyes, drawing in a trembling breath as if I could anchor myself in this moment and not my memories chasing me. Yet the truth pressed in with the chill: no matter how far I ran, the shadow of the biker world—its danger, its allure—was never out of reach.
“I’m sorry.” Rowen’s voice came low and rough beside me, laced with regret. “I should’ve thought this through, made sure it felt right for you before dragging you in there.” The way he said it—soft but fierce—made it clear he was kicking himself, his protectiveness fighting with his own doubts.
I looked up, catching the way the city’s glow reflected in his eyes. “If this is the place you want, then buy it, Rowen. Don’t let me stop you.” My voice trembled; I tried for steady, but my uncertainty bled through.
He leaned in, his hands cupping my face, rough thumbs brushing tears I hadn’t realized had gathered. His gaze held mine—gentle, unwavering. “Not if it makes you feel anything less than safe,” he said, voice thick with promise. “I won’t risk you for anything in this world. Not even a place with a perfect view.”
I let out a soft, rueful laugh, wiping at my cheeks. “Rowen, I’m starting to think there is no such place. Not for someone like me.”Someone who once wore a biker’s property patch with pride and now wears the scars inside, I thought but didn’t voice aloud.
He flashed a crooked grin, a spark of hope in his eyes as he fished for his phone. “There is, honey. I just need to make one call,” he said, determination lighting his features. “I’ll find the perfect place—you’ll see.”
