Dark Revenge Of An Unwanted Wife: The Twins Are Not Yours! - Chapter 441

Chapter 441: Lucky?

Ewan believed his luck had run out.

For a brief, almost naïve moment earlier, he had thought the dice had rolled in his favor—that somehow, blindly, he had picked the right number, pulled the lucky lot, and that fate had given him a tiny sliver of reprieve.

He’d held on to that fragile hope the way a drowning man might cling to driftwood in an endless sea. But now… now the truth in John’s words rang through his head like a church bell tolling for the dead, loud and merciless, and he realized his driftwood was nothing but splintered rot.

His breath came unevenly. He leaned his elbows on his knees, pressing his face into his palms, trying to slow the pounding in his temples. His ears still rang—not with sound, but with meaning.

John. A fisherman now. Ordinary. That was lucky for him.

John; a man who had deliberately stepped away from the life of blood and shadow that had consumed so many of them. No guards waiting around. Lucky too.

Yet, all that luck has been swallowed by a certain truth, so venomous, so dangerous, that no amount of salt air could cleanse it.

The gang had pulled the plug on Emily Thorne?

Ewan’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. He was speechless, hollowed out by disbelief.

Was fate playing some cruel, mocking game with him? Was this life deliberately conspiring to tear him down, to usurp the fragile grace he had clawed back with Athena, to snap whatever threads he still held with the Thornes?

He could almost see their faces. Old Mr. Thorne. A man who had never stopped mourning his only child. Athena. Florence.

What would they do if they knew?

The answer came to him too quickly, too darkly. They might want blood. They might also tear Cedric and his family from the ground up, root and branch.

And him? What role would he play in that storm? The bearer of the news?

Would he be the coward who buried the truth under silence, betraying the man who had trusted him tonight?

His chest squeezed, his breath catching. He couldn’t betray John. Not after the promise, not after the sincerity in those weathered eyes. He couldn’t betray Ella either—Ella who had looked at him with quiet worry when they spoke. And there were the children too.

Yet he couldn’t betray Athena either. Couldn’t look her in the face and hold this truth behind his teeth. Couldn’t withhold it from Old Mr. Thorne, who deserved, at the very least, honesty, no matter how jagged.

He was stuck, caught in an impossible snare, a wolf in a trap that cut deeper the more he struggled.

“Ewan…”

John’s voice was soft, tentative, like a ripple across still water. But it barely reached him.

Ewan stayed in his silence, thoughts tumbling too fast, too heavy.

“Ewan.” Louder this time.

The sound cracked through his haze. He jerked his head up, eyes focusing again on the man across the table.

John’s expression was apologetic before words even formed on his lips. “I’m sorry, lad. I know this is more complication than you ever wanted. And it might… it might drive you and Athena apart even more. But I couldn’t keep it anymore. Not after all these years.”

Ewan exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a tight line. His gaze hardened, but not out of anger—more out of desperation. “Then tell me,” he rasped. His voice was rough, heavy, as if dragged out from somewhere deep inside. “Tell me everything. No holding back.”

John nodded slowly. His shoulders rose with a deep, bracing breath, then fell, carrying the weight of years. His calloused hands twisted together on the table.

“I was hired,” John began, his voice low, almost reluctant. “By old Mr. Thorne’s sister. Her family. She sent for me, invited me to her place. Said she had something that needed doing. At first, I thought it was just the usual—smuggling, maybe protection, maybe running something quiet across the states. But when I got there…”

He shook his head, rubbing his palms as if trying to scrub away the memory.

“She spoke plain. Too plain. She told me exactly what she wanted. She told me about the Thorne celebration coming up. Said Emily and her husband would be there, both of them. She gave me a map—marked it herself. Every room. The wing they slept in. Where they usually retired to when they came home.”

Ewan’s jaw clenched hard. His fingers drummed once against his thigh before curling into a fist.

“She told me where to get the poison,” John went on, his voice dipping lower, almost breaking. “It wasn’t just a passing suggestion. She pressed it into my hand like scripture. Told me it would be quiet. Clean. No alarms, no blood. Just… another tragedy, nothing more. One that people could shake their heads at and move on.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t want it, lad. By God, I didn’t. Not with the Thornes’ name on it. Old Mr. Thorne… he’s feared, respected. I wanted no part in his grief. But…”

His eyes shut tight, jaw trembling. “The money. The amount she offered—it was more than I’d ever seen in one place. More than I could ever earn… well, I thought so…Enough to set my family up forever. And I… I couldn’t turn it down.”

His eyes opened, meeting Ewan’s. They glistened, but no tears fell. “So I did it. I took the job. And Emily died by my hand.”

The silence that fell after those words was crushing.

Ewan stared at him, face blank but heart roaring.

The air in the room thickened, pressing down, squeezing. Somewhere outside, a gull screamed into the night sky, its lonely call cutting across the waves, but it only made the silence heavier.

John’s hands trembled. He lifted them, clutching them together before pressing them against his lips. His shoulders hunched inward.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Forgive me, lad. This secret—it’s been a stone in my chest for years. My wife, she’s begged me. Over and over, she said, tell someone, John. Tell it, confess it, or it will kill you from the inside. But I feared it. Feared what would follow. Feared what they’d do to my children.”

He dropped his hands, staring at the table. His voice was raw. “I’ve tried to make amends. Wherever I could, I tracked down families I wronged. Left coin on doors, offered work where I had it. Sometimes it mattered, sometimes it didn’t. But the Thornes… they are different, you know that. Too powerful. Too wounded. I couldn’t face them.”

Ewan leaned back slowly, dragging a hand down his face. His eyes closed for a long, heavy moment before he spoke. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.” His voice was flat, almost hollow.

John flinched.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Ewan muttered, eyes still shut. “Not now. Not with the Grey virus tearing the city apart. I’ll think about it. But I’m not promising anything.”

He opened his eyes, staring hard at the wall. The gang took lives. Yes. That’s what they did most times. But the Thornes… they’re different. No matter how nepotistic that sounded, they’re different.

His thoughts churned again. Should he tell them now? Should he look Athena in the eye and drop this knife at her feet? Would she want vengeance?

Would she ever forgive him if she found out he had known and kept quiet? What about Old Mr. Thorne?

John didn’t speak. The weight of his guilt filled the room on its own. Finally, his voice came, soft, fragile. “Thank you for listening, lad.”

Ewan looked at him briefly. The man was gray with sorrow, countenance heavy, hollowed by years of guilt. And yet, Ewan offered no comfort. There was no comfort to give.

Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket, exchanged contacts with John, and nodded once. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For being honest with me. At least.”

John rose. He motioned for Ewan to follow, his steps slow, shoulders slumped. He led him to the guest room prepared for him. At the door, he gave a shrug, an attempt at casualness, but his expression never lightened.

—

What a day. Ewan mused, looking around the room, ready to retire to bed.

The room was bare meanwhile, simple. A narrow bed covered with clean sheets. A small desk in the corner with a half-burnt candle. The sea’s scent drifted through the cracks.

Ella had brought him food when he and John parted ways. Each bite had been warm, but tasted like ash in his mouth. She had questions in her eyes when she served him earlier—questions she had swallowed.

He had been grateful she hadn’t spoken.

Now, he sat back, head tilted against the wall. His phone felt heavy in his hand.

He called Athena first. It rang. Once. Twice. Then stopped. No answer. His heart sank a little. Busy, he told himself. She must be busy.

He tried Sandro next. Again—rings, then nothing.

A frown creased his brow. His chest tightened out of habit. What was going on?

Finally, he called Susan. She didn’t pick either. But after a long pause, a text buzzed on the screen: Busy. Everything’s okay.

He exhaled, letting the tension bleed just a little.

Still, unease gnawed at him.

He tossed the phone onto the table, stretched out on the bed, but sleep didn’t come easily.

Eventually, however, exhaustion dragged him under.