Page 98 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
Rowan's expression darkened at the veiled reference to his treatment of her. "You don't know the full story," he said, his voice carrying the kind of authority he was accustomed to having unquestioned.
The words hit Marigold like a physical blow, the familiar refrain he'd always used to dismiss her concerns and redirect blame away from himself. How many times had she heard those exact words during their relationship? How many times had he used them to make her question her own perceptions and experiences?
"She doesn't need your story anymore," Gus said firmly, stepping forward to position himself between Rowan and her. "Whatever version of events you're selling, she's not buying."
The protective gesture, the way he claimed space on her behalf without asking permission or expecting gratitude, made something warm bloom in her chest. This was what support looked like—not grand gestures or public displays, but quiet acts of solidarity when they were needed most.
Rowan's mask of civilized charm was beginning to slip, revealing glimpses of the entitled anger that lurked beneath his polished surface. She'd seen this before, usually in private moments when things didn't go according to his plans, when people had the audacity to deny him what he believed he deserved.
"I won't make a scene," he said, his voice tight with controlled fury. "I know better than to waste my time arguing with amateurs. This is nothing compared to the city where the world thrives on prosperity, versus this town that has nothing going for them."
The contempt in his words was breathtaking in its scope—not just dismissing them as individuals, but attacking their entire way of life, their values, their choices. He spoke as if success could only be measured in dollars and social status, as if the peace and fulfillment she'd found here was somehow less valuable than the hollow achievements of her former world.
"You're right," she said, her voice gaining strength with each word. "This place has nothing like what the city offers. No backstabbing. No betrayal. No public humiliation. No people who claim to love you while plotting your downfall. It's terrible that way."
Her sarcasm was sharp enough to cut, and she watched Rowan's face flush with anger at being spoken to so directly. In their previous relationship, she'd learned to package any criticism in gentle terms, to avoid challenging his ego too directly. But she was done protecting his feelings at the expense of her own truth.
"Marigold," he said, his voice taking on the patronizing tone she remembered so well, "you should find it in your heart to forgive rather than hold grudges. This bitterness doesn't suit you."
The presumption of it—the sheer audacity of him coming to her sanctuary and telling her how she should feel about his betrayal—made her anger flare so hot it was almost blinding. Forgive? Hold grudges? As if her hurt and anger were character flaws rather than natural responses to being betrayed by people she'd trusted completely.
"Speaking of holding grudges," he continued, his tone shifting to something more calculated, "I heard Cypress was back in town. Interesting timing, don't you think? The ex-boyfriend who's an Omega male that doesn't know his place. Like a lost puppy made into a puppet."
The vicious attack on Cypress—someone who wasn't even present to defend himself—revealed depths of cruelty that took her breath away. Whatever issues existed between her and Cypress, whatever complications his presence might create, he didn't deserve to be spoken about with such contempt. The fact that Rowan would use someone's designation as a weapon, would attack a man for being an Omega male, showed exactly who he really was beneath the sophisticated veneer.
"Get off my property," Meadow said, his voice carrying the kind of deadly calm that suggested his patience had reached its limit. "Now."
For a moment, the two men stared at each other—city sophistication meeting rural authority, entitlement confronting genuine power. Rowan was taller and broader, with the kind of presence that commanded boardrooms and social gatherings. But Meadow had something more fundamental—the quiet confidence of a man who knew his own worth and wasn't interested in proving it to anyone else.
"Of course," Rowan said finally, his tone suggesting he was choosing to leave rather than being forced out. "I've delivered the message I came to deliver. What Marigold does with it is her choice."
He dropped the envelope on the ground at her feet—a gesture that was clearly meant to be insulting, reducing her sister's letter to litter. But Marigold made no move to pick it up, keeping her eyes fixed on his face with an expression of cold disgust.
"This isn't over," he said quietly, the words pitched for her ears alone. "You think you can hide out here forever, playing house with these people? You'll be back. And when you are, remember that some of us have longer memories than others."
The threat was subtle but unmistakable, couched in language that gave him plausible deniability while making his intentions clear. But instead of the fear he was obviously expecting, Marigold felt only a deeper sense of resolve. Let him remember. Let him plot and scheme and imagine himself powerful. She'd found something here that he couldn't touch—genuine connection, honest work, the kind of belonging that came from being valued for who she was rather than what she could provide.
"Goodbye, Rowan," she said firmly, her voice carrying a finality that made it clear this was an ending rather than a pause.
He studied her face for a long moment, perhaps looking for signs of the woman he'd once controlled so easily. But whatever he saw there clearly wasn't what he'd hoped for, because his expression hardened into something cold and calculating.
"We'll see," he said finally, turning on his heel and walking back to his car with the kind of measured stride that suggested he was fighting to maintain dignity in retreat.
The BMW's engine purred to life with expensive smoothness, and Marigold watched as the car executed a precise three-point turn and began making its way back down the ranch's longdriveway. She stood perfectly still until the sound of the engine faded completely, until even the dust cloud kicked up by the tires had settled back to earth.
Only then did she allow herself to acknowledge the trembling in her hands, the way her heart was racing with adrenaline and suppressed emotion. The confrontation had gone better than she'd feared—she'd held her ground, spoken her truth, refused to be intimidated or manipulated. But the cost of maintaining that strength was beginning to make itself known in the aftermath.
"You okay?" Meadow asked quietly, his voice gentle with concern.
She nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure it was true. "Better than I expected, actually. I thought seeing him would... I don't know, make me doubt myself or regret leaving. But it just reminded me why I had to get away."
"He's exactly what I pictured," Flint said with disgust, bending to pick up the discarded envelope. "All surface charm hiding something rotten underneath."
"Should I open this?" he asked, holding up Magnolia's letter.
Marigold looked at the cream-colored paper, her sister's perfect handwriting visible even from a distance. Once, receiving a letter from Magnolia would have been cause for excitement—sisters separated by circumstance finding ways to maintain connection. Now, the sight of it filled her with nothing but exhaustion.
"Burn it," she said without hesitation. "Whatever she has to say, I don't need to hear it. That chapter of my life is closed."
