“I had a concussion,” she continues. “But Dad...” She pauses, her throat working. “He was bleeding. I could see it, pooling beneath him, and I didn't know what to do. I was twelve years old, and I didn't know how to save him.”
“So, you learned,” I finish quietly.
She nods, her eyes glistening despite her efforts to maintain composure. “I swore I'd never feel that helpless again. That I'd learn everything I needed to know so that the next time someone was dying in front of me, I could save them.”
The conviction in her voice resonates through me, lodging deep in my chest. This wasn't ambition or career planning. This was purpose forged in grief, a vow made by a child who refused to let loss define her future.
“Your father would be proud,” I tell her.
Her breath hitches, and she blinks rapidly, forcing the tears back before they can fall. “I hope so.”
“He would,” I repeat with certainty. “Because you kept your promise.”
She meets my gaze then, vulnerability replacing the caution she's carried all evening. “Thank you.”
I incline my head, acknowledging the gratitude without diminishing it.
The server returns to clear our plates and offer dessert, but Rowan declines. I pay the bill quickly, and we leave the restaurant together, stepping back into the cold night air. The car is waiting, but I don't open the door yet.
“There's a lounge nearby,” I tell her. “Private, quiet. We can talk more if you'd like.”
She hesitates, glancing toward the car before returning her attention to me. “Another private space?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” She exhales slowly, her storm-gray eyes dropping for a moment before returning to me.
“Because I'm not ready for this evening to end.”
The honesty disarms her, and I watch the decision form behind her eyes. She could refuse, retreat to the safety of distance and professional boundaries. Or she could trust me for a few hours more.
“Okay,” she finally agrees. “But just for a little while.”
“That's all I'm asking.”
Leo drives us to a building three blocks away, a property I own that houses offices on the lower floors and private meeting spaces on the upper levels. The lounge I choose is on the top floor, accessible only with a key card and monitored by security, whom I trust implicitly.
The space is exactly as I described. Dim lighting, plush furniture arranged around a fireplace that's already lit and crackling softly. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the city below, lights twinkling against the darkness like scattered stars.
Rowan moves toward the windows first, her breath fogging the glass slightly as she stares out at the city spread beneath us. I remain near the door, giving her space to adjust to the environment before joining her.
“This is yours?” she asks without turning.
“Yes.”
“You own a lot of buildings.”
“Real estate is a useful investment.”
She turns then, her expression thoughtful. “Is that all it is? An investment?”
“No,” I admit. “It's also control. Knowing the spaces I occupy are secure.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It's necessary.”
She crosses to the sofa, lowering herself onto the cushions with visible relief. I move to the bar tucked into the corner, pouring two glasses of wine before joining her. I hand her one, and she accepts it with a quiet thank you.
