Chapter 26 Another Version Of Finnian
KARA’S POV
The engine starts. That sound alone makes my stomach twist. I stay frozen beside the open car door for a second longer, weighing every instinct screaming at me to run. But Finnian’s hand doesn’t tighten and doesn’t force me this time. He just waits, standing there like he already knows the outcome.
I hate that he’s right and I get in.
The door closes with a solid thud, sealing us inside the quiet and expensive cage of his car. He walks around to the driver’s side without another word and slides in. The engine hums again, smooth and controlled, nothing like the storm inside my chest.
We drive without music and words.
Just the sound of tires against concrete, then asphalt, then the city slowly thinning out as buildings give way to open roads. I stare out the window, arms wrapped around myself, bracing for whatever comes next.
Minutes pass, maybe more. I lose count. Then the scenery changes.
Green stretches endlessly before us. Tall iron gates appear, ornate and impossibly grand. Finnian slows, enters a code, and the gates open soundlessly.
My breath catches.
“What is this place?” I ask quietly despite myself.
He doesn’t answer right away.
The car rolls forward, and then I saw flowers. So many flowers that my fear evaporates in an instant. Rows upon rows of them spill across the land in every color imaginable. White roses, blush peonies, deep red tulips, lavender, sunflowers, and blooms I don’t even recognize. The air is thick with their scent, soft and overwhelming in the most beautiful way.
I forget to breathe.
Finnian parks the car and turns off the engine.
“We’re here,” he says.
I step out slowly, my heels sinking slightly into the gravel as I take it all in. The garden stretches far beyond what I can see, framed by old trees and gentle hills. It feels unreal, like I stepped into someone else’s dream.
“This is…” My voice trails off.
“Mine,” he says simply.
I turn to him, stunned. “You own this?”
He nods once.
“I bought it years ago.” His gaze moves across the field, distant now. “It was supposed to be a gift.”
“For who?” I ask, though something in my chest already knows.
“My mother.”
The word lands heavy between us.
“She loved flowers,” he continues quietly. “Or at least, I thought she did.” A humorless smile tugs at his lips. “I dedicated this entire place to her. Had it designed, maintained, perfected.”
I swallow. “She must have loved it.”
He lets out a short laugh.
“She didn’t.”
I turn fully toward him.
“She said it was unnecessary,” he adds. “Wasteful. Told me affection doesn’t need grand gestures.” His jaw tightens. “She never once stepped inside.”
My chest aches in a way I didn’t expect.
“So I kept it,” he says. “Not for her. For myself.”
Silence settles between us again, but this time it’s different. Softer.
“I didn’t bring you here to scare you,” he says suddenly. “And I didn’t drag you out because I wanted control.”
I glance at him, unsure.
“Then why?” I ask.
He exhales slowly, like the answer costs him something.
“What you heard earlier,” he says, eyes fixed on the flowers, “wasn’t meant for you. But you deserved to know.”
I tense slightly.
“She came back,” he continues. “Lindsey. She wanted explanations. Closure. Something I don’t have left to give.”
“You don’t owe me that,” I say honestly.
“I know,” he replies, finally meeting my eyes. “But I wanted you to understand.”
Understand what?
“That the past is exactly that,” he says. “And that what happened earlier… it had nothing to do with you.”
Something inside my chest loosens.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he admits. “I don’t even know why I care if you believe me.”
His voice is quieter now. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never heard before.
“But I do.”
The admission steals my breath.
For a moment, I don’t see the man who dragged me through an office full of staring eyes. I see someone wounded, complicated, and painfully human.
“I was angry,” he adds. “And I took it out the wrong way. On you.”
I hesitate, then speak. “You scared me.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “And I hate that.”
That one sentence hits harder than any apology. I look around again at the garden, at the life blooming despite neglect and despite rejection.
“This place,” I murmur, “it’s beautiful.”
“It survived without her,” he says quietly. “Just like I did.”
I don’t know why my heart softens then. Maybe it’s the honesty and maybe it’s the way he stands there, stripped of his arrogance, and surrounded by something he created out of longing. Or maybe it’s because for the first time, he isn’t trying to overpower me.
“I still don’t understand you,” I say softly.
He gives a faint smile. “I don’t expect you to.”
“But…” I hesitate. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
His gaze sharpens, searching my face.
“For what?”
“For not pretending nothing happened,” I answer. “For treating me like I matter.”
Something unreadable passes through his eyes.
“You do,” he says simply.
And in that moment, standing in the middle of a garden born from unreturned love, I realize something dangerous that whatever game this is, whatever line we’re dancing on, Finnian Matthew Stewheinz isn’t just pulling me back into his world, he’s letting me see the parts of him no one else ever did.
And that scares me more than anything else ever has.