Dark Revenge Of An Unwanted Wife: The Twins Are Not Yours!

Chapter 442: Waylaid

The morning broke soft and pale, with streaks of gold brushing the horizon, when Ewan found himself standing in John’s modest living room again, ready to leave. His bag was slung over his shoulder, heavy not the sack, but with the weight of confessions he had been saddled with yesterday.

Ella fussed around him briefly, smoothing the collar of his shirt like a mother would a child. "Safe journey, Ewan," she said, her voice light but her eyes troubled.

He nodded, murmured a thank you, though his chest felt constricted.

John stood a little away, arms folded, his frame backlit by the soft light seeping through the open window. His silence wasn’t awkward—it was something deeper, heavier.

For a moment, Ewan wondered if words would even reach between them.

He lingered a second longer, their eyes catching. Something unspoken passed in that silence, something only two men burdened with truth could understand. Regret, acknowledgement, perhaps a faint thread of reluctant respect.

Ella broke it. "John, why don’t you see him off to the strip?"

Ewan raised a hand quickly. "That’s not necessary. Really, I’ll be fine."

But John didn’t answer. He simply picked up his weathered cap from the chair and moved toward the door. His silence said enough.

Ella gave a small wave, shooing Ewan along as though sending a son off to school.

Outside, the air was crisp, damp with dew. They started the walk together, not speaking at first. The ground crunched softly under their steps.

"Morning, John!" a fisherman called as they passed the common junction, nets already slung across his back. A group of young men followed, waving briefly before heading to the path which Ewan believed led to the rivers.

Others greeted them on the path—women balancing baskets on their heads, children chasing after goats, a pair of men heading into the forest with cutlasses for the day’s work.

"Farmers," John explained, voice low. "Fields are inland. The soil here is kind if you know how to read it."

Ewan glanced around at the lush greenery, the slow rhythm of island life. The contrast to his own city existence pressed against him like a foreign skin. "And you... after everything... you can live here? Just like this?"

John shrugged. "Peace is good, lad. You learn to value it when you’ve had nothing but noise and blood. Out here, no one cares who I was. They only care if I mend my nets, if I bring in the catch. That’s enough for me."

Ewan’s lips pressed into a line. Peace. Could he ever find that, he wondered, with Athena? Or would she burn him alive with the weight of betrayal once she knew?

Could forgiveness grow in such scorched ground? He doubted it. But he still hoped, foolishly. Didn’t John tell him to keep playing?

less complicated though if she was single. But no. She was engaged to

he get past that

that

are you thinking

in the sight of

beautiful in its simplicity. Mist curled lazily across the water. Birds wheeled high above, their cries sharp and clean. Palm fronds swayed gently, their

this place, start again. But he knew himself too well. His ties

the small airstrip just as the sun’s rim breached the

ground, the dirt compacted by years of use. A single, aging hangar stood at the

rotors clinking

stopped at the edge of the strip, his cap pulled low. He raised a hand in farewell, his expression

on the strap of his bag. "Thank you," he said quietly. The words

with his last news, Ewan knew he should be grateful still. Things could have

his eyes shadowed, then turned

with reluctance, calculating his safety, his probability of

his

be in the city quickly, but a part of him wished for the long, slow journey of the boat instead, more time to think, more

gnawed at him. He needed

cockpit. Ewan ducked inside,

persistent gaze of the young woman sitting a row ahead. She couldn’t have been more

lips curled into a half-smile, her gaze shameless. Ewan sighed inwardly. He wished for his earpods,

in as though to

stiffening before she huffed and flounced back to her

filling the small cabin with vibration. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining Athena’s

tired old beast forced into service. When the mainland finally spread out beneath

grabbed his bag quickly, slipping out before anyone

dust, heat, and gasoline—rushed into his lungs, grounding

waved it down, climbed in, and sank against the worn seat, telling him where next to

text. Everything’s okay.

—

bustling air hit him the moment he stepped out of his city’s airport. The air was dense, humming with life. Car horns blared in the distance. Hurry pedestrians walking against

Ewan inhaled deeply. Home.

comfort lasted

black-tinted car slid to a stop in front of him, too smooth, too