The Light in His Darkest Chase

The divorce papers were barely signed before Rowan rushed off, desperate to return to the one woman he could never quite let go of.

Sometime later, from the dimly lit stage of a downtown lounge where I was singing, I caught a glimpse of him. His arms were wrapped around a beautiful stranger.

By then, I had already found my own rhythm again.

But Rowan? He seemed forever lost in the chase for the next thrill, wandering so far off the path that there was no going back.

The county clerk's office was packed the day Rowan and I finalized our divorce.

The couple at the next counter were screaming at each other, ultimately leaving without signing a thing. Rowan and I just sat there in absolute silence. We signed our names without a second thought.

Walking out the double doors side by side, papers in hand, he tossed me a set of keys.

"Keep the car."

The Astor family was swimming in generational wealth. A luxury car was pocket change to them. Besides, he had already transferred the deed of our marital estate into my name.

We had arrived in the same car. I highly doubted the young heir of the Astor empire was going to lower himself to calling a cab.

"Should I drop you..." I started politely.

A sharp honk cut me off.

The tinted window of a cherry-red Porsche rolled down, revealing a stunning, glamorous face. Even the way the wind caught her hair looked perfectly calculated.

"Rowan. Get in."

Serena. Rowan's childhood sweetheart, freshly returned from abroad.

Everyone in their elite circle knew Serena was his ultimate obsession. The elusive white moonlight he could never quite catch.

Seeing the unspoken chemistry between them, everything clicked into place. No wonder Rowan had been so incredibly generous with the divorce settlement. He just wanted me out of the picture as fast as humanly possible.

I pasted on a flawless smile. "Looks like your ride is here. I'll get going."

Rowan stood there, hands buried in his pockets, his dark eyes resting on me for a long, quiet moment.

"Drive safe," he finally murmured.

I nodded, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. "Be well, Rowan."

I didn't see him again until two months later.

By then, I had sold the massive mansion he left me and downsized to a sleek, two-bedroom apartment in a prime neighborhood. It was much smaller, but it didn't feel hollow when I was alone. The best part was the terrace. The natural light was phenomenal, and I spent countless afternoons out there just painting.

When the sun went down, I picked up my old gig. I sang at a local speakeasy, watching the night unfold, gathering inspiration for my canvas.

I was just covering a shift for a friend tonight. I never expected to see Rowan.

I sat on the stage. He sat in a velvet booth. When our eyes met, his gaze was utterly deadpan.

Only, the gorgeous woman draped over his shoulder wasn't Serena.

Did his dream girl already lose her shine? That was fast, even for him.

After two more songs, I stepped off the stage to use the restroom. I found Rowan leaning against the hallway wall, smoking.

Two months of dead silence between us. I couldn't even formulate a casual greeting that didn't sound terribly awkward.

He looked at me through a haze of gray smoke. His voice was a little rough. "How have you been?"

"I've been good."

He took a drag. "Running out of money?"

I knew exactly what he was implying. He was asking why I was hustling at a bar when he had left me a house, a car, and an alimony check thick enough to let a normal person retire in luxury.

I didn't give him a straight answer. "Can you ever really have too much money?"

Rowan stubbed out his cigarette. A cold, cynical smirk touched his lips. "Right. I almost forgot. You always did love the cash."

He wasn't entirely wrong. I married Rowan Astor for the money.

A year ago, he had a massive falling out with his family. Desperate to derail an arranged corporate marriage, Rowan walked up to me on the very first night we met and asked me to marry him.

It was a night just like this. Same bar. Same stage.

He looked at me and said, "You've got a decent voice, and you're easy on the eyes. Want to marry me and get my family off my back?"

In exchange, he offered a staggering payout.

I was drowning in bills and desperate for cash. Plus, he was painfully gorgeous. I said yes without skipping a beat.

I still remember the way he froze, clearly not expecting me to agree. Then, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "You've got guts."

I smiled back. "I'm not the one losing out."

I only realized later that the money was hard-earned.

I never fit into his world. Those trust-fund brats looked at my working-class background like dirt on their shoes.

At one of his private parties, Rowan stepped out to take a call. One of his frat brothers, heavily buzzed, leaned over and sneered at me. He told me that if Serena hadn't moved to Paris, a nobody like me wouldn't even be allowed to breathe the same air as Rowan, let alone hold the title of Mrs. Astor.

Back then, I was reckless and practically fearless. I raised my champagne glass right at him. "A psychic once told me I was destined for filthy wealth. Hearing you say that makes me think the guy was spot on."

The guy choked on his drink. But after that night, I stopped going to Rowan's parties.

His friends hated me, and the Astor family treated me like a ghost.

Rumor had it his mother had handpicked a world-class cellist with a sterling pedigree for him, not some trashy, starving artist who sang in dive bars.

The night we left the Astor family estate for the first time, Rowan reached out and laced his fingers through mine. He tilted his head, giving me that trademark lazy grin. "Don't let my mom get to you."

I glanced down at our intertwined hands and teased him. "Did you forget to mention to them that I'm technically a musician, too?"

His eyes crinkled with genuine amusement. He nodded solemnly.

"My mistake. Next time I introduce my wife, I'll be sure to include your prestigious titles. Let's skip telling my mom, though. Her heart is fragile. She might actually pass out."

Looking back, the marriage had its fair share of humiliations, but it was never unbearable.

Rowan always made it worth my while. We were just two people using each other to get exactly what we wanted.

Over the next few weeks, I spotted Rowan at the lounge a few more times.

Always the same routine. Me under the spotlight, him in the shadows.

His VIP booth was always packed with loud, obnoxious socialites, but my eyes always found him. He looked so incredibly detached from the noise around him.

He didn't play their drinking games. He'd just sit there, nursing a bourbon, flashing an occasional crooked smile. And every single night, there was a different girl clinging to his arm.

None of them held a candle to Serena. None of them had her radiant, commanding presence.

What about Serena? Wasn't he afraid word would get back to her?

I was so lost in thought that I messed up a lyric.

The guitarist shot me a look. We seamlessly transitioned into the chorus to cover it up.

When I glanced back at the VIP booth, I locked onto a pair of pitch-black eyes.

Rowan lowered his gaze, downed the rest of his amber liquid, wrapped an arm around the pretty brunette next to him, and walked out.

I pulled my eyes away and leaned into the mic, pouring everything into the heartbreak anthem.

"We are two dots moving in opposite directions, drawing a straight line with no end. Oh, this love is a deep, dark water, turning my days into endless nights."

Maybe I was just too used to the soft life of a billionaire's wife. Going from luxury back to the grind took a heavy toll. After a few months, my body started breaking down.

I picked up a prescription at the city hospital's outpatient clinic. The moment I turned around, I bumped right into a familiar face.

One of Rowan's childhood friends. Only now, he was wearing a white lab coat.

Cole raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile on his lips. "Don't tell me you've known me this long and never realized I was a doctor?"

He spoke to me like we were old pals. In reality, I only remembered his name because he had the kind of face that belonged on a billboard.

I gave him a polite nod and tried to walk past him.

He stepped into my path. "Sick?"

"Just a cold."

Cole glanced at the bold letters of the Gastroenterology Department right behind me. He didn't say another word, just offered a small, knowing smile.

When I got home, there was a familiar pair of men's loafers by the door. I could hear the clatter of pots and pans coming from the kitchen.

My dad pushed the kitchen door open, wearing an apron. His eyes darted to the pharmacy bag in my hand, lingering for a split second before he turned to yank the fridge open.

He didn't miss a beat with his usual sarcastic tone. "Look at that. The wealthy really do keep their fridges looking like a barren wasteland."

I leaned against the hallway wall, playing along. "Rich people only eat fresh produce, Dad. They don't do leftovers."

"I should thank God you're even eating scraps."

He had always hated my absurd marriage to Rowan. Since the day I tied the knot, he hadn't spoken a single sentence to me without a heavy dose of sarcasm.

He was a man of strict principles. He taught me to work hard and stay grounded, and it broke his heart to think he had raised a gold digger.

He was furious that I treated marriage like a business transaction. He was furious that I sold my soul for a check. And he was furious that I endured the elite's mockery without an ounce of shame.

But ever since the divorce, he would take a grueling hour-long bus ride just to cook for me, packing my freezer full of homemade casseroles and stews.

Watching his shoulders, which seemed a little less broad these days, I forced back the sting of tears. "Give it a rest, Dad. I'm already getting my karma, aren't I?"

I saw his finger twitch. He was winding up to lecture me again.

Instead, the stubborn old man took a deep breath and barked, "Go wash your hands. Dinner is ready."

"Got it, Dad."

My body couldn't handle the late nights anymore, so I quit the bar gig.

Thankfully, my art was finally gaining traction. The money was rolling in.

Peter, an older guy from my art academy who acted as my dealer, called me up. "Your piece, The Reset, just sold."

I stared at the blank canvas sitting on my easel. "Mr. Solstice again?"

"Yep. The guy is obsessed with your work."

Lately, an anonymous buyer going by the name Mr. Solstice had been purchasing everything I painted. He didn't seem to care about the style or the subject. He paid instantly, offered exorbitant amounts, and bought every single piece I produced.

"Understood. Thanks for handling it, Peter."

Peter hesitated on the line. "Julianne. Do you know this guy?"

I blinked, a soft smile touching my lips. "No. Not a clue."