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?

was single. But no. She was engaged to the lofty

get past

that he

you

the sight of

across the water. Birds wheeled high above, their cries sharp and

wished he could stay—be swallowed by the anonymity of this place, start again. But he knew himself too well. His ties to Athena, to the Thornes, to his children, to the city, would never loosen

airstrip just as the sun’s rim breached the horizon, painting the world in

leveled ground, the dirt compacted by years of use. A single,

strips, rotors clinking idly in the morning breeze. It had clearly seen better

at the edge of the strip, his cap pulled low. He raised a

strap of his bag. "Thank you," he

killed the lucky mood with his last news,

shadowed,

weighted with reluctance, calculating his safety, his probability of getting to

boat, cutting across the dark water with the spray against his skin, the salt sharp in his mouth. That had felt raw,

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

gnawed at him. He needed to

a thickset man with oil-stained hands, gave him a nod before climbing into the cockpit. Ewan ducked inside, finding his

persistent gaze of the young woman sitting a row ahead. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, her

half-smile, her gaze shameless. Ewan sighed inwardly. He wished

in as though to speak, he shook his

body stiffening before she huffed and flounced

the rotors began, filling the small cabin with vibration. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining Athena’s face instead, and willed the machine to carry him

a tired old beast forced into service. When the

thud. He grabbed his bag quickly, slipping out before anyone could

of the mainland—of dust, heat, and

nearby. He waved it down, climbed in, and sank against the

text. Everything’s okay. He

—

was dense, humming with

Ewan inhaled deeply. Home.

the comfort lasted only a

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