He learned to ask Megan instead of assuming.
He learned that apology was not a sentence. It was a practice.
Some evenings, after the children slept, he and Megan sat on the porch with tea going cold between them.
They spoke of practical things at first.
Court dates. Medical bills. Custody agreements. Security concerns. The foundation Rowan planned to create from his personal fortune to help families harmed by illegal private placements.
Then, slowly, they began speaking of harder things.
Their marriage.
The day it broke.
The years before it did.
One night in late April, rain tapped softly against the porch roof while fireflies blinked above the wet grass.
Megan wrapped both hands around her mug. “I used to wonder what I would say if you ever learned the truth.”
Rowan looked at her profile in the dim light. “What did you decide?”
“That I’d tell you I hated you.”
