Dark Revenge Of An Unwanted Wife: The Twins Are Not Yours! - Chapter 442

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?

That would have been less complicated though if she was single. But no. She was engaged to the lofty Antonio.

How will he get past that hurdle?

How would he get Athena to see that he was the best man for her?

“What are you thinking about?”

“Everything.” Ewan muttered, taking in the sight of the village at dawn.

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

The island breathed with unhurried life, and for a heartbeat, Ewan 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 their grip.

They reached the small airstrip just as the sun’s rim breached the horizon, painting the world in brighter hues.

The airstrip was little more than a long stretch of leveled ground, the dirt compacted by years of use. A single, aging hangar stood at the far end, its corrugated roof rusting at the edges.

The helicopter waited there, its body battered, paint peeling in strips, rotors clinking idly in the morning breeze. It had clearly seen better years.

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

Ewan tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. “Thank you,” he said quietly. The words felt small. Insufficient.

Even though the old boss had killed the lucky mood with his last news, Ewan knew he should be grateful still. Things could have gone worse.

John only nodded, his eyes shadowed, then turned back down the path.

Ewan walked toward the machine, each step weighted with reluctance, calculating his safety, his probability of getting to the mainland in one piece.

He’d come in by boat, cutting across the dark water with the spray against his skin, the salt sharp in his mouth. That had felt raw, fitting. But this—this flight in the clattering skeleton of a helicopter—felt wrong. Hasty. And unsafe too.

He wanted to 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 space to breathe.

Still, urgency gnawed at him. He needed to be home.

The pilot, a thickset man with oil-stained hands, gave him a nod before climbing into the cockpit. Ewan ducked inside, finding his seat squeezed between crates of fresh tomatoes. Their earthy scent filled the cramped space.

He adjusted himself, leaning back, trying to ignore the persistent gaze of the young woman sitting a row ahead. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, her dark hair tied loosely, her eyes flicking toward him with open interest.

Her lips curled into a half-smile, her gaze shameless. Ewan sighed inwardly. He wished for his earpods, anything to drown out the weight of her attention.

When she finally shifted closer, leaning in as though to speak, he shook his head once, curt. “Not interested.”

Her pout was immediate, her body stiffening before she huffed and flounced back to her seat, muttering under her breath.

Ewan stared at the floor, his patience frayed. The hum of 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 home faster.

The flight was noisy, uncomfortable. Every creak of the helicopter seemed like a complaint from a tired old beast forced into service. When the mainland finally spread out beneath them, Ewan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The machine touched down with a rough thud. He grabbed his bag quickly, slipping out before anyone could stop him.

The scent of the mainland—of dust, heat, and gasoline—rushed into his lungs, grounding him.

A taxi idled nearby. He waved it down, climbed in, and sank against the worn seat, telling him where next to go.

His thoughts flickered back to Susan’s text. Everything’s okay. He prayed it was true.

—

The 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 the clock.

Ewan inhaled deeply. Home.

But the comfort lasted only a second.

A sleek, black-tinted car slid to a stop in front of him, too smooth, too deliberate.

The driver’s window lowered. A man leaned out, expression neutral. “I’m sent to drive you home, Mr. Ewan. By Mr. Sandro…”

Ewan froze. He didn’t know this man. His eyes narrowed. Sandro would never send someone he didn’t know.

Unease coiled in his stomach, sharp and cold. Was his family safe? Had Susan lied? Or worse—had someone else used her phone while she was trapped?

The thought hammered his skull. His heart began to pound.

The driver repeated himself, voice calm, but Ewan noticed movement then—shadows at the edge of the street. Men, closing in. All dressed alike, black attire, movements sharp. His mind calculated quickly.

Kael.

It had to be. He had made the calculation that Ewan would be at the airport.

Ewan’s pulse spiked. Should he enter the car and slit the driver’s throat the moment the doors shut? But what if there were more waiting in the backseat?

Should he instead turn and face the men advancing? Neither choice promised survival.

A hand clamped on his shoulder then, firm, friendly, cutting off his train of thought.

“Ewan, I’ve been waiting a while.”

The voice was familiar, grounding. Relief surged through him, sharp but tangled with suspicion still.

He turned. Connor stood there, eyes flicking between him and the driver. There was confusion in the latter’s gaze, calculation as well.

Ewan caught the way Connor greeted the driver casually, all ease, though his eyes told a different story.

“The boss asks that I bring him…”

The driver frowned, uncertain, but Connor winked—subtle, a signal meant only for Ewan. The driver didn’t understand, but settled back in his seat.

After all, Connor was his fellow gang member.

Connor’s hand tightened slightly on Ewan’s shoulder before steering him toward another waiting car.

They climbed in. Only then did Ewan release the breath that had been locked in his chest.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, his voice low, tight, once they were seated.