Chapter 3

The next day, I enter his office building, noting how much it’s changed. Once bright and open, now the place feels cold, haunted—dark walls and muted tones replacing the warmth and energy that used to flow through the hallways. This place is as haunted as he is, transformed into something hard and unyielding. I see his pain in the colors, the starkness, as if he’s painted his grief across every surface. Rowan has always expressed himself through colors and music, a gift he inherited from his twin. Now, those colors feel raw, heavy, like they’re bleeding through the walls.

I stop at the security desk, where a young secretary hands me a sleek silver card with my appointment details. The place is excessively formal now, tightly wound with regulations and processes that make it feel like a fortress. I remember when it used to feel more like a home than a business. I can feel Rowan’s anguish in the rigidity of his rules, the locked doors, the guards at every turn.

The guards scan me thoroughly before allowing me to step into the elevator, which only leads to one place—his private floor. It’s a slow, deliberate ride up, the silence so heavy it feels like a warning. The doors open, and I face another layer of security: a final scan, a final check before I’m allowed to pass through.

As I approach the main door at the end of the corridor, I pause, slipping off the wig and carefully removing the glasses that obscure my face. They go into my oversized bag along with the rest of my disguise. I smooth my tailored blue pants, adjust the white cold-shoulder top dusted with tiny stones, and take a breath, settling into my true self. The soft blue of my kitten heels makes a quiet tap against the floor as I step forward. 

I don’t knock. I never needed to knock. Stepping inside, I let my gaze wander over the room, taking in the muted lights that shift like flickers of emotion, casting the walls in a spectrum of shadows and hues. The paintings, once vibrant, seem darker now, more somber and intense, as though they’re holding secrets of their own. The whole space feels charged, almost haunted, like it’s daring me to remember the man I used to know.

He’s at his desk, head bowed in focus, completely still. But Rowan has always known when I’m watching.

“Rowan,” I say, my voice carrying softly across the room.

His head snaps up abruptly, too fast, too sharp. The way he looks at me makes my stomach twist.

“It’s Mr. Draven to you,” he says, his voice a chilling, unfamiliar edge.

A surge of shock rushes through me, hot and cold. “Since when?” I step forward, placing my bag on his desk with a quiet thud. “Rowan, what has happened to you?”

He stares at me, and for a heartbeat, I see something in his eyes—widened and almost startled—that feels right. But then he says my name like a question, “Lynette?” as though he’s testing it on his tongue.

“Yes, Lynette.” I search his face, looking for a sign of recognition, a glimmer of warmth. But the smile he offers is… off. Too broad, too quick. His lips, usually a soft, warm pink, have taken on a strange, carnation hue, a detail that jars me. Rowan’s lips have always been cameo pink, something softer, familiar.

He crosses the distance between us and wraps me in his arms. His embrace is warm, yes, but it holds a strange, unfamiliar chill, like a comforting blanket that’s somehow just a bit too cold. Rowan’s hugs used to feel like coming home—warm and reassuring, a protective, almost brotherly comfort. This hug feels different, disorienting, as though I’m close to something I once knew but can no longer grasp.

But his scent… His scent catches me off guard. Sage, rosewood, cinnamon—a mix that sends a shiver through me, oddly alluring yet out of place. He smells like an irresistible blend of paradise and seduction. But Rowan hates sage, is allergic to rosewood, and would only smell of cinnamon or dark chocolate. My senses tangle in confusion.

I pull back, plastering on a grin, trying to shake off the unease. “I missed you.”

“Me too,” he replies, his voice smooth, careful. “How’s your health now?”

I force myself to keep my voice steady. “The monks said I need to take it easy, or the sickness might return. After six months, I’ll be clear. They’ll be sending me herbs regularly.”

“You should’ve stayed,” he says, almost cryptically, his voice laced with bitterness. “Six more months, and you’d have been fully healed.”

“I was worried about you, Rowan. The news about you worries me. What is this about your brother? I thought he was dead.”

“He wasn’t, he never was. He was murdered in my house. Died in my arms. Died in my place.” His voice trembles with a bitterness that feels almost foreign, yet painfully real. “I failed him.”

I catch the flicker of self-loathing, and it pulls at my heart. “So, you want to avenge him?”

He pauses, his eyes hardening, distant. “I intend to be the man I should have been… and much more.” 

I sink into the chair across from him, crossing my legs, watching him closely as he shifts topics, asking about my stay at the temple. I respond lightly, but I’m studying every movement, every glance. Something’s off. Rowan’s always been left-handed, but now he’s casually switching between both hands, his fingers tapping against the desk in a rhythmic, unfamiliar pattern. Rowan usually drums his fingers absently, never a single, calculated tap.

Our conversation winds down after thirty minutes. He stands, signaling the end, and I rise, leaning in to give him a light kiss on the cheek. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t even flinch. Rowan has always stiffened under the casual warmth of my kisses on his cheek or forehead, as if he didn’t quite know how to accept affection.

“So, see you Friday?” I ask, my voice laced with hope. “Maybe we can catch up properly?”

He nods once, but his eyes are cool. “Sure. I’ll call you. Goodbye, Lynette. Thanks for visiting.”

I swallow, the word “goodbye” settling strangely in my chest. “Always,” I say, grabbing my bag and turning to leave. As I walk out, a nagging thought gnaws at me. Rowan has called me ‘Dynamite’ for years, a nickname that meant everything and nothing, a small piece of us.

He didn’t use it once.

As I slide into my car, pulling my disguise back on, the realization hits me with the force of a cold wave. The eyes that stared at me weren’t violet. They were amethyst, darker, sharper, unfamiliar.

That man… isn’t Rowan.