Page 97 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
Rowan spotted her immediately, his gaze tracking her movement with the predatory focus she'd once mistaken for passionate attention. A smile spread across his handsome features—the same charming expression that had once made her heart race and now made her skin crawl with remembered betrayal.
"Marigold," he called out, his voice carrying across the distance between them with the kind of projection that came from years of commanding boardrooms and social gatherings. "You look... rustic."
The comment was delivered with just enough warmth to seem like a compliment while carrying an undertone of condescension that made it clear what he thought of her current appearance. She was acutely aware of her work clothes—jeansstained with honest labor, boots scuffed from real use, hair pulled back in a practical ponytail rather than styled for display.
"Rowan." She managed to keep her voice level despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs. "What are you doing here?"
"Can't a man visit his former beloved?" he asked with that same charming smile, though she could see the calculation behind it now, the way he was assessing her reaction and adjusting his approach accordingly.
The possessive language made her jaw clench with irritation. Former beloved—as if their relationship had ended through mutual decision rather than his public rejection and cruel humiliation. As if she had any obligation to welcome him after what he'd done.
"You lost that right when you humiliated me in front of everyone," she replied coolly, proud of how steady her voice remained despite the emotional chaos churning beneath the surface.
Something flickered across his expression—surprise, perhaps, at her directness. In their previous relationship, she'd rarely confronted him so bluntly, had learned to phrase any disagreement in terms that wouldn't threaten his ego or challenge his authority.
"I brought you something," he said, reaching into the car to retrieve an envelope that she recognized with a sinking heart. Magnolia's distinctive handwriting adorned the cream-colored paper, her sister's perfect script as familiar as it was unwelcome.
"A letter from Magnolia," he continued, extending the envelope toward her. "She wanted me to deliver it personally."
The sight of her twin's handwriting sent a complex mixture of emotions flooding through her—pain, anger, betrayal, and underneath it all, a treacherous flicker of curiosity about what her sister might have to say. But she made no move to accept theoffering, keeping her hands firmly at her sides despite the way Rowan held it out expectantly.
"I'm not interested," she said flatly. "Whatever she has to say, she can keep it to herself."
Rowan's eyebrows rose in apparent surprise. "Don't you want to know what she says? She's worried about you, Marigold. We all are."
The lie was so blatant, so obviously false that she almost laughed. Worried about her? They'd driven her away with their betrayal and cruelty, had made it impossible for her to remain in the city she'd called home for years. Their worry was entirely self-serving—concern about how her departure might reflect on them rather than genuine care for her wellbeing.
"I'm sure you are," she replied with heavy sarcasm. "So worried that you waited months to check on me. So concerned that you had to track me down instead of simply calling."
"You changed your number," he pointed out, as if that explained everything.
"I changed my number because I didn't want to talk to any of you," she shot back, her voice gaining strength with each word. "Because I wanted to be left alone to rebuild my life without interference from people who proved they couldn't be trusted."
The exchange was drawing attention from around the ranch. She could see Meadow emerging from the barn, his expression growing thunderous as he took in the scene. Gus appeared from the direction of the main house, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something much more serious. Even from a distance, she could feel their protective energy, the way they were positioning themselves to support her if needed.
"Who are your friends?" Rowan asked, his gaze sweeping dismissively over the approaching men. "Local farmhands?"
The contempt in his voice made her anger flare hotter. These weren't just friends—they were the people who'd welcomed her without judgment, who'd given her purpose and belonging when she'd lost everything. To hear him dismiss them so casually, as if their worth was determined by their bank accounts or social connections, reminded her of everything she'd grown to hate about her former world.
"They're better men than you'll ever be," she said with quiet conviction.
Meadow reached them first, his tall frame radiating the kind of controlled authority that came from genuine confidence rather than manufactured superiority. His dark eyes took in the expensive car, the designer suit, the envelope still clutched in Rowan's hand, and she could practically see him cataloging threats and calculating responses.
"Problem here?" he asked, his voice carrying the kind of calm that suggested violence was an option he was prepared to consider.
"No problem," Rowan replied smoothly, extending his hand in a gesture that was clearly meant to establish dominance through social convention. "Rowan Thorne. I'm an old friend of Marigold's."
Meadow looked at the offered hand for a long moment before deliberately ignoring it, crossing his arms over his chest instead. "Meadow Calloway. This is my ranch."
The snub was subtle but unmistakable, and Marigold watched Rowan's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly as he lowered his rejected hand. He wasn't accustomed to being dismissed, especially not by people he considered beneath his social station.
Flint and Gus arrived moments later, flanking Meadow in a display of solidarity that made Marigold's chest tight with emotion. They introduced themselves with the same coolcourtesy Meadow had shown, making it clear through their positioning and body language that Rowan was not welcome on their property.
"Well," Rowan said with a laugh that held no real humor, "quite the welcoming committee. Though I have to say, I'm not sure what Marigold is doing playing farm with a bunch of..." He paused, his gaze traveling dismissively over their work clothes and practical demeanor. "Nobodies."
The insult hung in the air like a slap, its casual cruelty revealing everything about Rowan's character that Marigold had been too blind to see when she was with him. These weren't nobodies—they were successful, accomplished men who'd built meaningful lives through their own efforts. Meadow owned and operated a thriving ranch, Gus ran a respected veterinary practice, Flint was a skilled craftsman whose work was sought after throughout the region.
"At least we're somebody to the people who matter," Gus said quietly, his usual warmth replaced by something much more dangerous. "Rather than being somebody who destroys the people who trust them."
