Chapter 59
Lena's POV
I looked between them, my suspicion sharpening. Something was going on here—some layer of subtext I wasn't picking up on. I leaned closer to Eleanor, lowering my voice. "How do you know them, exactly? And do you know Rowan and I..."
She gave me a sly smile. "Tell you what—if we win, I'll explain everything."
I stared at her. "You set me up."
"Maybe a little." She didn't look remotely apologetic. "But come on. You're already here. Might as well make the best of it. Besides, I'm on your side."
I glanced at Rowan, who was watching me with that same unreadable expression.
This is a terrible idea, I thought.
But I'd promised Eleanor. And I wasn't about to back out now, especially not in front of Rowan.
"Fine," I said. "Let's do this."
---
The range was divided into lanes, each one separated by reinforced glass partitions. Eleanor and I took lane three; Rowan and Colin set up in lane four.
The first round was straightforward—twenty shots each, highest combined score wins. I loaded my Glock 19, feeling the familiar weight settle into my palm, and tried to ignore the fact that Rowan was less than ten feet away.
I fired.
The recoil was steady, controlled. The bullet punched through the paper target's center mass.
Again. And again.
By the time I finished my twenty rounds, my shoulders were loose, my breathing even. I hit the button to bring the target forward and inspected it—nineteen shots in the center ring, one just outside.
Eleanor whistled. "Jesus, Lena. You said you were rusty."
"I am." I ejected the magazine, set the gun down carefully. "That used to be twenty for twenty."
From the next lane over, I heard Colin mutter, "Oh, we're fucked."
I didn't look at Rowan.
We ran through two more rounds—Eleanor holding her own, Colin making decent shots, Rowan infuriatingly accurate. By the third round, it was clear Eleanor and I were winning, but barely.
Eleanor set down her gun and turned to the group, eyes bright. "Okay, this is boring."
Colin raised an eyebrow. "Boring?"
"We're just shooting targets. There's no stakes." She grinned. "Let's make it interesting."
I felt a prickle of unease. "Interesting how?"
"Loser has to answer a question. Honestly." She looked around at all of us. "About their love life."
My stomach dropped.
"Absolutely not," Rowan said flatly.
Colin, predictably, laughed. "Oh, I'm in. This just got good."
Eleanor looked at me, her expression somewhere between mischievous and genuinely curious. "What do you say, Lena?"
I should have said no.
I should have made an excuse, left, gone home.
But Rowan was watching me, his jaw tight, and something reckless flickered to life in my chest.
"Fine," I said. "Three rounds. Loser answers."
Rowan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Lena—"
"What's wrong?" I kept my voice light, almost teasing. "Afraid you'll lose?"
A beat of silence.
Then, quietly: "No."
"Good." I picked up my gun, reloaded. "Let's play."
I raised the pistol, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder and metal, aimed at the target, and squeezed the trigger.
"Nice!" Eleanor cheered beside me. "We're up by five points."
I lowered the gun and rolled my stiff shoulders. Eleanor and I had fallen into an easy rhythm—almost every shot landed in the nine or ten ring. Across from us, Colin looked mildly annoyed, while Rowan—his expression remained calm, but I noticed his grip on the gun tightening.
"Two more rounds," Rowan said, his voice flat.
Over the next two rounds, something shifted. Rowan's shots became devastatingly precise, nearly every bullet hitting dead center. Eleanor leaned close and whispered, "God, is he a professional or something?"
I didn't answer. I knew Rowan had learned to shoot years ago, but I'd never seen him this focused. His eyes locked on the target with cold concentration. Each pull of the trigger felt like a declaration.
The score was tied.
"Final round," the range officer said, handing over fresh magazines. "Loser answers the winner's question. Rules stand."
My fingers traced the grip of the pistol. Eleanor fired first—ten points. Colin followed—nine points. Then Rowan—ten points.
My turn.
I raised the gun and aimed at the center. At this distance, this angle, I could hit it with my eyes closed. But just before I pulled the trigger, a thought flashed through my mind—if we won, what would I ask Rowan?
Did you ever love me?
Do you regret this marriage?
Why did you run?
I didn't want to know the answers. Whatever he said wouldn't change the fact that we'd be signing papers in a lawyer's office soon. And I didn't want to hear anything that might shake my resolve before then.
Bang.
The bullet veered off center, landing in the seven ring.
"Ah—" Eleanor's disappointed sigh escaped.
I lowered the gun and turned to her with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Hand slipped."
Colin and Rowan won.
---
"Alright, winner's privilege." Colin rubbed his hands together, looking eager. "Let me think what to ask—"
"I'll ask." Eleanor cut him off, looking at me. "Lena, do you regret this marriage?"
The shooting range went silent. Even the background music seemed to disappear.
I looked at Eleanor. Her eyes held concern, and something else—understanding. I knew what she was really asking. Not the surface-level social pleasantry, but the real, deep-down regret.
I was quiet for a long time. Long enough that Eleanor's expression started to shift toward discomfort. Long enough that Colin cleared his throat, ready to break the tension.