Chapter 4 Old Debts, New Wounds

# Chapter 4 — Old Debts, New Wounds

Morning arrived with a headache and a sense of dread. I'd barely slept, Caleb's words replaying in my mind on an endless loop: *I still love you. I've never stopped loving you.*

The wedding was set for three o'clock. I had hours to decide what to do with this revelation, hours to prepare for whatever storm Rowan might bring. Part of me wanted to pack my bags and flee, but a stronger part—the part that had pieced together that invitation—needed to see this through.

I was applying mascara when a sharp knock rattled my door. Expecting housekeeping, I called out, "Just a minute!" and quickly wrapped my robe tighter.

The pounding continued, more insistent this time. I crossed the room and peered through the peephole.

Rowan.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. She stood in a white silk robe, her dark hair in perfect curls, makeup already flawless. The picture of a bride on her wedding day—except for the fury twisting her features.

"We need to talk," she said, pushing past me into the room.

I closed the door, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I felt in just my robe, hair still damp from the shower. "Good morning to you too."

Rowan paced the small space like a caged animal, her movements sharp and precise. "I want you gone. Pack your bags and leave before the ceremony."

"I was invited," I said, crossing my arms. "By you, remember? With that charming little note on the back."

She stopped pacing to face me. "That was before I knew you were still trying to seduce my fiancé."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie to me!" Her voice rose, then she caught herself, smoothing down her robe. "I heard him last night. Every pathetic, drunken word."

I met her gaze steadily. "Then you heard that he called me, not the other way around."

Something flickered across her face—doubt, perhaps, or calculation. She turned away, moving to the window where she stared out at the rain-soaked gardens where the ceremony would take place.

"Do you know why I invited you, Hazel?" she asked, her voice eerily calm now.

"To gloat," I said simply.

She laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "That's part of it. But mostly, I wanted you to see what it feels like. To watch someone take what's yours."

The bitterness in her tone caught me off guard. "What are you talking about?"

She turned back to me, her eyes glittering with a resentment so deep it startled me. "You really don't remember, do you? You've always been so self-absorbed."

"Remember what?"

"Toby," she said, the name like a bullet between us. "You remember Toby Mitchell, don't you? When I was fourteen, I was in love with him. The first boy I ever truly cared about."

The name connected in my mind—Toby from last night, who'd seemed so knowingly bitter about Rowan. Toby from high school, who'd briefly dated me in senior year when Rowan was a sophomore.

"That was over a decade ago," I said slowly. "And he asked me out, Rowan. I didn't pursue him."

"You knew how I felt about him!" Her composure cracked. "I told you! I confided in you, and you went behind my back."

Old memories surfaced—Rowan's teenage crush, her diary pages filled with hearts around his name. I'd known she liked him, yes, but it had seemed like just another of her fleeting infatuations.

"We only dated for two months," I said, bewildered by the intensity of her anger. "And he approached me. I didn't think—"

"That's right. You didn't think. You didn't care." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "You took him because you could. Because that's what you always do. You take and take and never look back to see who you've hurt."

I stared at her, trying to process this revelation. "Are you seriously saying that this—marrying my ex-husband—is revenge for a high school boyfriend?"

Her smile was cold. "Not just that. It's for every time you got what I wanted. Every time Judith compared us and found me lacking. Every Christmas when your father gave you the better gift. Every family dinner where you were the center of attention with your 'artistic talent' and your 'bright future.'"

The depth of her resentment stunned me. I'd known we weren't close, but this level of hatred—this calculated revenge—was something else entirely.

"You're marrying Caleb to punish me," I said slowly. "Not because you love him."

"Oh, I'll be a perfect wife to him," she said, her smile widening. "I'll give him everything you wouldn't. The children you were too selfish to have. The supportive home life you were too independent to provide." She tilted her head. "And every time he looks at our children, he'll see what could have been yours."

The cruelty of it knocked the breath from my lungs. Children had been our breaking point—not because I didn't want them, but because I'd wanted to establish my career first, to be financially stable. Caleb had grown increasingly impatient, until our disagreement over timing became a fundamental rift.

"You don't know anything about our marriage," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"I know everything," she countered. "Caleb told me all about it. How you put your career before his needs. How you made him feel like he wasn't enough."

I flinched. Had Caleb really painted me as the villain in our story? Or was this Rowan's twisted interpretation?

"If he's so unhappy with me," I said carefully, "then why did he call last night saying he still loves me?"

Her smile faltered, just for a second. "Because he was drunk and nostalgic. It means nothing."

"Are you sure about that?"

She moved suddenly, crossing to her oversized handbag on the desk. She pulled out a leather-bound book I recognized immediately—the diary she'd kept through high school.

"Let me show you something," she said, flipping through the pages. She stopped and held it out to me. "Read it."

I took the book reluctantly, looking down at her neat handwriting:

*December 15th, 2009: Today I saw Hazel kissing Toby by her locker. I hate her so much. Mom says I should let it go, that there will be other boys, but she doesn't understand. It's not just about Toby. It's about HER always getting everything. Well, I've made a promise to myself. Someday, I'll take back everything she's taken from me. Everything she loves. Everything she thinks is hers. And she'll know how it feels.*

She turned several pages forward. "And this one."

*July 3rd, 2011: Hazel brought her new boyfriend to the family barbecue today. Caleb something. He's actually really cute, and he looks at her like she's the sun. It makes me sick. But I was nice to him. Really nice. Mom noticed and gave me a look, but I just smiled. Hazel should enjoy it while it lasts. Because someday...*

I closed the diary, feeling ill. "You've been planning this for years."

She took the book back, running her fingers over the cover almost lovingly. "Not specifically this. But when the opportunity presented itself—when you were stupid enough to let him go—I knew exactly what to do."

"Does Caleb know?" I asked. "Does he know he's just a pawn in your revenge fantasy?"

Her confidence wavered, just slightly. "Caleb loves me."

"Does he?" I challenged. "Or does he love that you're connected to me? That being with you keeps him in my orbit?"

"Stop it," she hissed.

"He told me last night that he's only marrying you to stay connected to me," I pressed, seeing her composure crack. "That he's never stopped loving me."

"He was drunk!"

"Drunk words are sober thoughts," I said quietly. "You know that as well as I do."

She slammed the diary down on the desk, making me jump. "It doesn't matter what he thinks he feels. In three hours, he'll be my husband. We'll build a life together, have children together. And you'll be alone, watching from the sidelines as I live the life that should have been yours."

The raw hatred in her voice was chilling. This wasn't just about Caleb, or even about me. This was about something broken in Rowan, something that had festered for years.

"I feel sorry for you," I said honestly. "To carry this much anger for so long... it must be exhausting."

She laughed, the sound brittle. "Save your pity. I won. You lost. That's all that matters."

As she moved toward the door, I called after her: "What if I told him? What if I showed Caleb those diary entries, let him see what this marriage really is?"

Rowan turned back, her expression suddenly, eerily calm. "Then I'd make sure he never forgave you. I have ways of making people believe what I want them to believe, Hazel. Don't test me."

She left, closing the door quietly behind her. I stood frozen in the middle of the room, trying to process everything that had just happened. The diary entries. The years of resentment. The calculated revenge.

My phone buzzed with a text from Toby: *Need to talk to you before the ceremony. Meet me in the garden at 1?*

I stared at the message, wondering what role Toby played in all of this. Had he known Rowan's plans? Was he another pawn, or something else entirely?

One thing was clear: this wedding was never about love. It was about revenge—a dish Rowan had been preparing to serve cold for over a decade.

And I had just hours to decide whether to let her win, or to fight for the truth—and possibly for Caleb.