An hour later, I found myself standing in the heart of a breathtaking brownstone on East 92ndStreet, the kind of place that seemed to hold stories inside its walls. Late-evening sunlight spilled through tall, paned windows, catching the gleam of hand-hewn wood banisters polished by decades of touch. The custom mahogany pocket doors slid closed with a comforting hush, and the air itself felt tinged with history and hope. Each room—three stories stacked with purpose—radiated a gentle, lived-in warmth, as if someone had gone out of their way to make every corner a safe haven. Plush rugs softened the hardwood floors, and shelves overflowed with books and little knickknacks that whispered of future memories.
The backyard, though modest by Nebraska or Oklahoma standards, was a hidden sanctuary—sun-drenched and intimate, lined with climbing roses and a weathered cedar fence. There was just enough grassy space for a wooden play set, its swings swaying slightly in the breeze, and a patch where Danika could chase fireflies or tumble with laughter. A small stone patiowaited for summer dinners and morning coffees, the city’s distant hum softened by a fringe of ferns and hydrangeas.
“This brownstone was built in the late 1890s and has five bedrooms, a gym, and an office. There is custom millwork throughout the house.” The realtor’s voice was a gentle murmur behind me, but her words faded into the background as I drifted toward a window overlooking Central Park.
The city stretched out beyond the glass, a patchwork of trees and brownstones and dreams. Just as I let the view sink in, Rowen came up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist. The familiar press of his body anchored me—steady, safe, and utterly overwhelming. For a moment, I let myself lean into him, feeling the world narrow to the steady rhythm of his breath and the warmth of his hands. My heart stuttered, battling relief and a hesitant hope, the sharp edges of old fears softened by his steadfast presence. How long had I wanted this—a place to belong, someone to hold me when the memories pressed too close?
“See that four-story brick building to the right?” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear—a shiver of comfort and anticipation winding through me.
“Yes,” I breathed, my gaze following his, heart skipping for reasons I couldn’t quite name.
“That’s Sypher’s building. You’re literally seconds from your daughter, and the park is right across the street. I can’t make Sypher or Dante walk away from the club, but I can promise you this: if anything ever happens, we’re close enough to get to Danika in a heartbeat. She’ll always have a place with us—safe, loved, and never out of reach. So, Melissa—” He paused, his voice playful but earnest. “Can you see it? Can you picture our life here?”
I turned to face him, a grin tugging at my lips in spite of myself. “You really aren’t going to let this go, are you?” My voicewas light, teasing—but under it, I heard the tremor of longing, the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, I could let myself believe in happy endings.
Rowen grinned, unrepentant, eyes alive with certainty. “Not a chance in hell, honey. I know what my future looks like, and she happens to be standing right in front of me.” The warmth in his gaze made something in my chest loosen, and for the first time in a long while, I let myself imagine it—a future filled with laughter echoing through sunlit rooms, muddy shoes by the door, and a love persistent enough to eclipse my past.
I should have known not to believe in fairytales, because the second we returned to Sinclair’s house, reality came crashing down around me.
Chapter Thirty-One
Melissa
Suitcases lined the entryway as Rowen and I stepped inside, while Sinclair, immaculate and severe as ever, barked orders at his staff. His gaze cut across the room, fixing on us like a spotlight. “Where the hell have you two been?” he demanded, voice clipped, all authority and ice.
I shot him a look, eyebrow arched, my tone sharper than usual. “Seriously? I know you’re not talking to me like that. Newsflash, asshole—I don’t work for you.”
Sinclair’s lips pressed into a thin line, formality stitched into every word. “No, you are a guest in my house.”
“A problem that can be easily fixed,” I snapped back. “Assuming you can find your own ass in that fancy suit.”
Rowen moved fast, his body shielding mine, voice tight. “What’s going on now?”
“We are leaving for Chicago in the morning,” Sinclair announced, precise and unyielding, as if logistics were weapons.
I squared my shoulders and strode into the living room, the confrontation simmering beneath my skin. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, dropping into an armchair and letting my sarcasm do the heavy lifting. “Unless you plan on dragging me out kicking and screaming, you’re out of luck.”
Sinclair set his jaw, his tone steely, measured, as if every word was a verdict. “You are under my protection, whether you appreciate it or not, my dear.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Your protection is as worthless as your promises.”
“Your boyfriend didn’t think so,” Sinclair replied, his words loaded, too calm.
A raw silence crashed through me, the name hitting harder than a punch. Rowen tried to stop me, but Sinclair had already drawn blood—mentioning Travis was a line in the sand. I shoved Rowen aside, my hand flying before I could think. The slap cracked through the room, and for a split second, everything stilled—air thick, time stretching between my anger and Sinclair’s stunned expression. I’d spent too long holding it in, swallowing grief like glass shards, pretending Sinclair’s choices hadn’t hollowed out more than just me.
Leaning in until only inches separated us, my voice vibrated with fury. “You ever mention his name again, I will kill you myself. He’s dead because of you! You sent him back, knowing damn well he could die, and for what?” My words trembled, cutting through the tension. “To protect your son—a man who wants nothing to do with you. He was already set to leave, already wounded. And yet you sent Travis, anyway. Well, fuck you, Sinclair. I don’t owe you a damn thing!”
Sinclair wiped the blood from his cheek, his glare cold and unyielding. “That’s where you’re wrong, Dr. Jefferson. You are alive because of me.” His words landed like a blow, his eyes never leaving mine.
I stared at him, confusion swirling inside me. “What?” The word escaped before I could stop it.
Rowen, at my side, narrowed his eyes, his suspicion matching my own. “What the hell are you talking about, Sinclair? Melissa has nothing to do with the biker war or anything else for that matter.”
Sinclair’s voice sliced through the tension, his tone as smug as ever. “Tell me, Rowen,” he drawled, eyes locked onto Rowen with a cold, calculating stare. “While you were trying to get into Dr. Jefferson’s pants, did you find Jasper Michaels?”
His accusation hung heavily in the room, and I gasped—shocked and mortified that Sinclair would dare speak so crudely. Fury lit Rowen’s face, and his restraint snapped. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, his fist connecting hard with Sinclair’s jaw. The impact sent Sinclair sprawling to the floor, stunned and clutching his face in pain.
Rowen stood over Sinclair, his grip like iron on the cuff of Sinclair’s suit jacket. His voice was low, trembling with barely contained rage. “If I ever hear you say her name like that again, I will finish what I just started. Apologize. NOW.”
