Dark Revenge Of An Unwanted Wife The Twins Are Not Yours novel 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.

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

Ewan inhaled deeply. Home.

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