Chapter 33 Pot and kettle
Timothy
I didn’t remember deciding to walk away.
One second I was standing in the doorway, watching Hannah hum to herself like my presence meant nothing,like I hadn’t just walked in on something that made my blood boil, and the next, I was striding down the hall toward my office, jaw locked so tight it ached.
Dark clouds. That was the only way to describe it.
The house felt too quiet behind me, too loud inside my head. Her laugh still echoed there, bright and unguarded in a way I hadn’t heard in months. And the worst part, the part I didn’t want to examine was that it hadn’t been meant for me.
I pushed into my office and slammed the door hard enough that the frame rattled.
Rowan was already inside, sprawled lazily in one of the leather chairs like he owned the place. One ankle rested on his knee, hands folded behind his head, expression infuriatingly calm.
“Well,” he said lightly, “that was dramatic.”
I rounded on him. “I’m not becoming fond of the fact that I have to keep asking what the hell is going on between you and my wife.”
Rowan blinked once. Then he sighed and dropped his feet to the floor. “Tim…”
“No,” I snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t wave this away. I walk in and you’re laughing with her and all cozied up and looking very homely like…like you belong there. Like I’m the one intruding here.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” he said evenly.
I scowled at him, pacing the length of the room. “You spend more time with her than I do. You’re always there. Talking. Sitting with her. Asking questions. Don’t pretend that doesn’t matter.”
Rowan leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, expression sharpening. “We’re friends.”
I laughed harshly. “I don’t trust that.”
His brows shot up. “You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust the situation,” I shot back. “She’s lonely. She’s isolated. And you’re…” I gestured sharply. “There. Around her. All the time.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “Say what you’re actually thinking.”
I stopped pacing and faced him. “I’m thinking she might catch feelings. You’re putting yourself in a position where it’s easy for her to do so. Stop.”
The words tasted bitter coming out.
Rowan stared at me for a long moment. Then his jaw tightened. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, I’m fucking serious,” I snapped. “This is my wife we’re talking about.”
“That’s rich,” he said flatly.
I bristled. “Excuse me?”
“You bring women home,” Rowan said, voice suddenly hard. “Parade them through the house. Sleep with them upstairs while your wife paints or gardens downstairs pretending she can’t hear. And you’re worried about her catching feelings because someone treats her like a human being?”
My chest flared with heat. “It’s not the same.”
“It is exactly the same,” he shot back. “If anything, yours is worse.”
I opened my mouth to argue, because instinct demanded I defend myself, but the words came out thin, unconvincing.
“I’m not emotionally involved,” I said instead.
Rowan scoffed. “Congratulations. Do you want a medal?”
I turned away, dragging a hand through my hair. “Fucking hell, Row. This marriage isn’t real,” I muttered. “You know that. She knows that. We both agreed.”
“And yet,” Rowan said quietly, “you still expect her to behave like it matters.”
I spun back toward him. “That’s not…”
“She’s your wife in public,” he continued. “She protects your image. She shows up. She absorbs humiliation after humiliation without retaliating. And at home? She’s alone.”
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
I ignored it.
“She doesn’t need you,” I said coldly. “And you don’t need to play savior.”
Rowan stood then, slow and deliberate. “I’m not playing anything. I’m being her friend.”
“She doesn’t need that from you either,” I growled.
Rowan’s gaze hardened. “Well, she needs something, Timothy. And right now, you’re giving her nothing but cruelty.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” he challenged. “You freeze her out, sleep elsewhere, bring other women home, snap at her for existing, and then glare at her when she laughs with someone else.”
I clenched my fists. “You’re overstepping, Row.”
“Am I?” he shot back. “Or are you just uncomfortable because I’m saying the part you don’t want to hear?”
Silence stretched between us, thick and ugly.
Finally, I exhaled, long and tired. “This marriage is a sham. You know it. There’s no ‘better’ here. There’s just… endurance.”
Rowan shook his head slowly. “You can still do better by her, even if you never love her.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
Love.
I laughed under my breath, humorless. “Don’t get poetic with me.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “She didn’t choose this mess any more than you did. And the least you could do is not punish her for surviving it.”
I looked away.
“She’s not your responsibility,” I said. “She’s mine.”
“Then act like it.”
My jaw tightened. I turned back to him, eyes cold. “Listen carefully. You’re my friend. And this…” I gestured vaguely, “…whatever this is between you and her, it stops. You keep your distance. You stop overstepping.”
Rowan stared at me for a long moment. Then he sighed, long-suffering and resigned. “You really don’t hear yourself, do you?”
“That’s not an answer, Row. I fucking mean it,” I warned.
He rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’m not interested in your wife.”
“Good.”
“But for the record,” he added calmly, “she deserves better than this.
“That’s not your fucking place to tell.” I turned toward my desk, opened the file folder waiting there, and snapped, “Come on. We have work to do.”
Rowan hesitated, then took his seat again, muttering something under his breath I chose not to acknowledge.
We buried ourselves in numbers and contracts, projections and timelines. Business was clean, sharp, uncomplicated. The only thing in my life that still made sense.
And yet..
Even as I discussed mergers and deadlines, my mind kept drifting back to a sunlit room, soft music, paint-stained fingers, and the sound of Hannah’s laughter. And Rowan at the receiving end of it.
I hated it. And I didn’t know why.