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Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

Ophelia

Hayden looks at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. “You’re laughing?” he asks, his voice rising with disbelief. “The guy just threatened you, and you’re laughing?”

“It’s Rowan,” I say, as if that explains everything. To me, it does. But the confusion in Hayden’s expression says otherwise. Of course, he doesn’t know Rowan—not like I do.

Relief floods through me, cutting through the tension like a crack of light through storm clouds. Rowan is here. Finally, I might get some answers—about Keane, about why no one told me he was alive.

And he might be able to explain why I’m Keane’s guardian instead of him. There has to be a good reason, right? Something logical that makes this entire situation make sense.

I don’t waste time trying to explain my behavior to Haydn. Instead, I head downstairs, my steps quick and purposeful, nerves and anticipation tangling inside me like a live wire. When I open the door, Rowan stands there, exactly as I remember—strong, confident, his broad frame filling the doorway with an almost overwhelming presence.

The moment his eyes land on me, his face breaks into a grin, warm and familiar, like sunlight piercing through a cold, gray day. Before I can even get a word out, he pulls me into a hug, lifting me off my feet in that way only Rowan could.

“Ophelia Foster,” he says with a laugh, his voice rich and warm. He spins me once, just like he used to when we were younger and all tangled up in Keane’s world—a little makeshift family, messy but ours.

Rowan. Constantine. Francine. Keane. Me. We had joined our two families and became one. Until we weren’t. Until one day, I woke up learning I had been in an accident and had lost part of my life.

Constantine never spoke about Rowan after the accident, and I never asked. Whatever broke between them stayed broken. Francine always sides with our older brother. And when Keane died, the rest of our found family fell apart with him.

When Rowan sets me back down, his hands linger on my shoulders as he studies me, his smile softening into something almost nostalgic. “You look good,” he says, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “Better than I expected, honestly. Life with the hockey player has been good to you.”

“You know about Haydn?”

He nods, his expression calm, unreadable. “I’ve kept tabs on you. Somebody had to. Your brother’s too busy trying to keep up with . . .” He trails off with a sigh, shaking his head. “You know what? I’m not here to talk about the past. Even though it seems like the past has decided to wake up.”

My stomach knots. “How long have you known Keane was alive?”

Rowan’s face falters, a flicker of something I can’t quite place—guilt, maybe.

“You’ve known all along?” My voice sharpens, anger creeping into my tone. “And you didn’t think about telling me?”

He exhales, his jaw tightening. “I was against Mom’s idea from the start, but when the doctors said he’d probably never wake up, I went along with it,” he says, his words slow, deliberate. “After what happened, you deserved to live, find a new future.”

“We’ll agree to disagree,” I reply, my voice clipped, because I’m not going to argue with him about what I did or didn’t deserve. It was a long time ago and right now I’m not opening that box which is tucked somewhere in my mind. Plus, knowing his mother, she’d have done everything to keep me away from Keane. It would’ve killed me.

That of course brings me to my next question, if their mom hated me . . . “Why am I his guardian and not you?”

Rowan shrugs, his expression hardening. “Who the fuck knows? When Dad died, I found out you were in charge of Keane. I didn’t want to bother you. So I just kept doing what they had been doing since they pretended he was dead.”

“Where was he?”

“All comfortable and pampered at the family home,” Rowan says, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “He had nurses, doctors, and physical therapists around the clock. Of course, the fucker wakes up while I’m away and out of reach. That’s Keane for you, doing whatever the fuck he wants.”

Rowan’s gaze locks with mine, intense and unyielding. “So, now that you’re up to date, I’m taking him with me, and you can go back to your happy life.”

Like hell I’m letting Keane go that easily. “Where would you take him?” I counter, folding my arms across my chest.

“Who the fuck knows?” Rowan replies, tapping his watch with deliberate emphasis. “Somewhere they can actually take care of him. I have a life, you know?”

“And he needs a family,” I snap, my tone mimicking his condescending drawl. “You know? The kind that doesn’t treat him like a burden.”

His jaw tightens, his expression darkening. “So you’re keeping him?” He tilts his head toward the house, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What about hockey boy? He doesn’t seem too thrilled about me being here, and I doubt he’s over the moon about playing nursemaid to your ex-fiancé.”

I take a steadying breath, pushing back my irritation, and motion toward the living room. “Rowan Stone, meet Haydn Wesford.”

Haydn steps forward, his posture rigid, his blue eyes cool as they size Rowan up. Rowan, for his part, looks equally unimpressed, his stance exuding the same defiance I’ve seen countless times before.

“Rowan,” I say, my voice firm, “this is Haydn, my?—”

“Boyfriend,” Rowan says. “I know.”

“More like her partner,” Haydn interjects smoothly, his tone even but carrying an unmistakable edge.

I want to remind him that he fucking paused us but right now is probably best if I deal with one thing at a time. Seriously, he can’t push me away and then go all caveman on me.

“Nice to meet you,” Rowan says, though the words are devoid of warmth.

“Likewise,” Haydn replies, his grip firm as their handshake lingers just a second too long, the air between them charged with tension.

“So you’re okay if my brother hangs out with her for the next . . . who the fuck knows how long it’ll take for him to recover—if he ever recovers,” Rowan says with so much pessimism that I want to kick him out of here. But I don’t.

Instead of letting Haydn respond, I pull up the medical assessment I received earlier today on my phone and hand it to him. “Here’s everything you need to know. His physical therapists and neurologists are optimistic. With time and support, they think he can make significant progress—both physically and mentally.” I press my lips together and add, “Full recovery, they mentioned.”

Rowan glides his finger along the screen, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhales deeply, running a hand over his face. “I fucking hate him sometimes,” he mutters under his breath.

“No, you don’t,” I counter, my voice softening. “You love your little brother, and you’d do anything for him. Even move to Portland if it meant keeping an eye on him.”

His head snaps up, his brows pulling together in surprise. “Move to Portland? We’re not that close, Ophie.”

I shrug, trying to sound casual even as my pulse races. “It’s an idea. You being here could help him. He needs his family, Rowan. If we’re going to bring him back—not just physically but mentally—he’s going to need you.”

Rowan lets out a low, humorless laugh, his lips curving in something that isn’t quite a smile. “You’ve got a life, Foster. This . . .” He gestures vaguely toward the house, frustration rippling through his voice. “You shouldn’t put it on pause for him. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.”

The bitterness in his tone isn’t new. It’s the same edge I’ve heard before, the one that tells me Rowan hasn’t forgiven Keane for the mess he became. And I get it—I really do. Keane isn’t just recovering; he’s a recovering addict. During the time we were together, he relapsed twice. The first time, it felt like the world had fallen apart, but we worked through it. The second time, it was harder—harder on him, harder on me—but he got help again.

He was doing better. He’d been clean for a year before the accident, if I remember right. A whole year of fighting the cravings, the demons, the endless cycle of falling and picking himself back up. I know because I was there. I saw the work he put in.

“Maybe,” I admit, my voice quiet but firm as I meet Rowan’s gaze, refusing to back down. “But you know I’m right.”

For a moment, Rowan doesn’t say anything, his expression hardening as he processes my words. But there’s something else there too, buried beneath the frustration. A flicker of guilt, maybe. Or hesitation. It’s subtle, but I see it.

And I know, deep down, that Rowan loves his brother. No matter how angry he is, no matter how much he says Keane doesn’t deserve this, he knows it too. That’s why he hasn’t walked out yet. That’s why he’s still standing here, listening. Because despite everything, he cares.

Even if he won’t admit it.

He looks away, his jaw tightening as he processes my words. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue, but then his shoulders drop slightly, and he exhales deeply. “I’ll think about it,” he mutters, and I know it’s the closest thing to a yes I’m going to get. “Can I see him?”

I nod. “Be nice to him. He can’t talk yet and if you want to communicate one blink is yes, two is no, and three is something . . . I just don’t know what that is.”

He snorts. “Okay then we’ll be blinking away.”

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