My phone's ringing wakes me up. Light comes through the curtains, but it's weak and unsure. My head hurts from the echoes of last night's storm and the words she left behind. I peek at the clock and see that it's 6:07 a.m. Life was easier nine years ago. I have to fix it now that it's a mess.
I sit up, and the blanket falls to the floor. Rain hits my window, and it doesn't stop even during the day. My suit is hanging on a chair and is still wet from the walk home yesterday. I put on my clothes in the dark: a crisp shirt, a tie that is stiff with starch, and a jacket that is just right. Every action makes the weight on my shoulders feel heavier.
The phone rings again downstairs. I pick up on the second ring.
"Rowan?" My mom's voice is tight. "Your father has been asking—"
I answer, "I'll be there in ten," cutting off her next question.
Duty comes first. Everything else can wait.
My dad walks back and forth next to the island in the kitchen. He has taken off his rain gear, and the steam from his coffee is rising in nervous curls. He's older now, with sharper eyes and a firmer jaw, but he's still the man I promised to honor.
"Morning," I say.
"Sit," he tells her. "We need to talk about Clarissa."
I sit down on a stool. There are a dozen porcelain cups on the counter. He's made enough coffee for a whole army.
Clarissa Hart—fiancée by choice, not by love. She walks in with her hair beautiful and a light lilac scent. She smiles at me, and it's warm and practiced.
"Good morning, Rowan." She speaks in a calm voice. "I hope the storm didn't bother you."
I nod, my throat dry. "Just the usual."
She fills your cup without asking. I observe her hands, which are steady and sure. No shaking of nerves. There was no sign of the girl who had pushed against me in the downpour.
My dad clears his throat. "This marriage is what makes our merger possible."
I put my cup down. "I know."
Clarissa looks me in the eye. "Thank you, Rowan.
I make myself smile. "As am I."
He shows the numbers: Without Clearwater Ventures, Hart & Sons loses three important clients. My signature on the contract and on her ring guarantees our futures.
"It is a business decision," he explains. "For the family."
I look at my hands. People who work together. People who are married. I swallow the lump in my throat.
After that, I go back to my study. Light from the outside comes through the blinds and makes bars on the desk. I shut the door and let it click shut. The universe behind me wants one face. I can be honest here.
Her letter is on the desk. The edges are wrinkled, but you can still read it. I make it smooth.
"I've loved you forever." This can't feel like a mistake to me.
I follow the smear where she wiped away a tear. My chest feels tight.
I walk back and forth. Memory claws its way back: Isla's laughing under the maples and the way her palm brushed against mine. That night, the storm wasn't just rain. It was a confession. Careless. Pretty. Doomed.
The phone buzzes again. I think about it for a second before I answer.
"Are you coming to lunch, Rowan?" My mom sounds impatient.
"Five minutes." I hang up, pick up the letter, fold it gently, and put it in my pocket. Later, I'll read it. When I have some time to think.
I go back downstairs and see my mom preparing the table for four people: me, my parents, and Clarissa.
"Sit," she says, drawing out a chair.
I do what you say. The conversation goes off track—talking about the weather, the merger, and Clarissa's imminent board presentation. My answers are courteous but not very close. I can't stop looking at Clarissa. Her posture is impeccable and her grin never changes.
She folds her napkin in the middle of lunch. "Rowan," she adds in a quiet voice. "I know this isn't how love tales normally start. But I think we can make something happen.
I look her in the eye. I saw hope in her eyes—weak but strong. That hope hurts me. I cough. "I want that too."
She smiles, a little bit of relief.
My father gives me a big packet after dinner. It's our wedding contract. I slide it open to find pages and pages of small print. Clauses that connect us not just in our hearts but also in our property, assets, and legacy.
"Sign," he says.
I grab the pen. The weight of it is surprising—it's sturdy and won't move. I think of Isla and her letter. I thought of the storm. I think about my duty.
I shake my hand as I sign the first page. Then one more. Then the last thing. Every signature is a link made of iron.
I give the contract back. The room is quiet.
My dad nods, pleased. Clarissa's eyes shine. My mom holds my hand.
I go outdoors, and the rain has stopped. The sky is a deep purple color. I take the letter out of my pocket. The ink has run, and her plea is now smudged. I put the paper to my lips.
I say softly, "I'm sorry."
I fold the letter, drop it on the marble step, and then kick it down the walkway. It flutters away, ripped. One time she told me that paper can't stand up to the rain. I watch her words fade away.
The sun is setting. I go to the registry office because my first appointment is in two days. My heart is beating like thunder. I get ready as I walk up to the thick wooden door. I can feel Clarissa next to me, her hand on my arm, steadying me.
They'll call us "Mr. and Mrs. Hart" inside. They'll ask whether we promise to love each other through illness and health. In business partnerships and fights in the boardroom. Yes, I will. I mean something else.
The door to the clerk's office opens. "Mr. Hart?" a woman in black asks.
I nod. My throat hurts. She tells me to come inside.
Clarissa strides forward, looking beautiful in white. She stares at me with hope in her eyes. I want to tell her the truth: a portion of my heart is still out in the storm, broken and wet. But I can't.
I swallow.
"Yes," I say.
She finds my hand.
I can hear the clerk ask, "Do you, Rowan Hart, take Clarissa Dawson to be your lawful wife?" from the hallway behind the closed door.
The words come back. I close my eyes and think about Isla's face. Images from that night flood through my mind: her laughing, the maples, and the rain that wouldn't stop.
I hold Clarissa's hand tightly. A promise that doesn't feel real to me. A obligation I can't get out of.
And at that moment, I understand shackles might be hidden and stronger than steel.
The wind kicks up again outside.
There is a woman at the window with long hair stuck to her face and eyes that are full of resolve. Isla.
I hold my breath as the door swings open...