Page 50 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

Flint and Gus arrived moments later, flanking Meadow in a display of solidarity that made Marigold's chest tight with emotion.

They introduced themselves with the same cool courtesy Meadow had shown, making it clear through their positioning and body language that Rowan was not welcome on their property.

"Well," Rowan said with a laugh that held no real humor, "quite the welcoming committee. Though I have to say, I'm not sure what Marigold is doing playing farm with a bunch of..." He paused, his gaze traveling dismissively over their work clothes and practical demeanor. "Nobodies."

The insult hung in the air like a slap, its casual cruelty revealing everything about Rowan's character that Marigold had been too blind to see when she was with him.

These weren't nobodies—they were successful, accomplished men who'd built meaningful lives through their own efforts.

Meadow owned and operated a thriving ranch, Gus ran a respected veterinary practice, Flint was a skilled craftsman whose work was sought after throughout the region.

"At least we're somebody to the people who matter," Gus said quietly, his usual warmth replaced by something much more dangerous. "Rather than being somebody who destroys the people who trust them."

Rowan's expression darkened at the veiled reference to his treatment of her. "You don't know the full story," he said, his voice carrying the kind of authority he was accustomed to having unquestioned.

The words hit Marigold like a physical blow, the familiar refrain he'd always used to dismiss her concerns and redirect blame away from himself.

How many times had she heard those exact words during their relationship?

How many times had he used them to make her question her own perceptions and experiences?

"She doesn't need your story anymore," Gus said firmly, stepping forward to position himself between Rowan and her. "Whatever version of events you're selling, she's not buying."

The protective gesture, the way he claimed space on her behalf without asking permission or expecting gratitude, made something warm bloom in her chest. This was what support looked like—not grand gestures or public displays, but quiet acts of solidarity when they were needed most.

Rowan's mask of civilized charm was beginning to slip, revealing glimpses of the entitled anger that lurked beneath his polished surface.

She'd seen this before, usually in private moments when things didn't go according to his plans, when people had the audacity to deny him what he believed he deserved.

"I won't make a scene," he said, his voice tight with controlled fury. "I know better than to waste my time arguing with amateurs. This is nothing compared to the city where the world thrives on prosperity, versus this town that has nothing going for them."

The contempt in his words was breathtaking in its scope—not just dismissing them as individuals, but attacking their entire way of life, their values, their choices.

He spoke as if success could only be measured in dollars and social status, as if the peace and fulfillment she'd found here was somehow less valuable than the hollow achievements of her former world.

"You're right," she said, her voice gaining strength with each word. "This place has nothing like what the city offers. No backstabbing. No betrayal. No public humiliation. No people who claim to love you while plotting your downfall. It's terrible that way."

Her sarcasm was sharp enough to cut, and she watched Rowan's face flush with anger at being spoken to so directly.

In their previous relationship, she'd learned to package any criticism in gentle terms, to avoid challenging his ego too directly.

But she was done protecting his feelings at the expense of her own truth.

"Marigold," he said, his voice taking on the patronizing tone she remembered so well, "you should find it in your heart to forgive rather than hold grudges. This bitterness doesn't suit you."

The presumption of it—the sheer audacity of him coming to her sanctuary and telling her how she should feel about his betrayal—made her anger flare so hot it was almost blinding.

Forgive? Hold grudges? As if her hurt and anger were character flaws rather than natural responses to being betrayed by people she'd trusted completely.

"Speaking of holding grudges," he continued, his tone shifting to something more calculated, "I heard Cypress was back in town. Interesting timing, don't you think? The ex-boyfriend who's an Omega male that doesn't know his place. Like a lost puppy made into a puppet."

The vicious attack on Cypress—someone who wasn't even present to defend himself—revealed depths of cruelty that took her breath away.

Whatever issues existed between her and Cypress, whatever complications his presence might create, he didn't deserve to be spoken about with such contempt.

The fact that Rowan would use someone's designation as a weapon, would attack a man for being an Omega male, showed exactly who he really was beneath the sophisticated veneer.

"Get off my property," Meadow said, his voice carrying the kind of deadly calm that suggested his patience had reached its limit. "Now."

For a moment, the two men stared at each other—city sophistication meeting rural authority, entitlement confronting genuine power.

Rowan was taller and broader, with the kind of presence that commanded boardrooms and social gatherings.

But Meadow had something more fundamental—the quiet confidence of a man who knew his own worth and wasn't interested in proving it to anyone else.

"Of course," Rowan said finally, his tone suggesting he was choosing to leave rather than being forced out. "I've delivered the message I came to deliver. What Marigold does with it is her choice."

He dropped the envelope on the ground at her feet—a gesture that was clearly meant to be insulting, reducing her sister's letter to litter. But Marigold made no move to pick it up, keeping her eyes fixed on his face with an expression of cold disgust.

"This isn't over," he said quietly, the words pitched for her ears alone. "You think you can hide out here forever, playing house with these people? You'll be back. And when you are, remember that some of us have longer memories than others."

The threat was subtle but unmistakable, couched in language that gave him plausible deniability while making his intentions clear.

But instead of the fear he was obviously expecting, Marigold felt only a deeper sense of resolve.

Let him remember. Let him plot and scheme and imagine himself powerful.

She'd found something here that he couldn't touch—genuine connection, honest work, the kind of belonging that came from being valued for who she was rather than what she could provide.

"Goodbye, Rowan," she said firmly, her voice carrying a finality that made it clear this was an ending rather than a pause.

He studied her face for a long moment, perhaps looking for signs of the woman he'd once controlled so easily. But whatever he saw there clearly wasn't what he'd hoped for, because his expression hardened into something cold and calculating.

"We'll see," he said finally, turning on his heel and walking back to his car with the kind of measured stride that suggested he was fighting to maintain dignity in retreat.

The BMW's engine purred to life with expensive smoothness, and Marigold watched as the car executed a precise three-point turn and began making its way back down the ranch's long driveway.

She stood perfectly still until the sound of the engine faded completely, until even the dust cloud kicked up by the tires had settled back to earth.

Only then did she allow herself to acknowledge the trembling in her hands, the way her heart was racing with adrenaline and suppressed emotion.

The confrontation had gone better than she'd feared—she'd held her ground, spoken her truth, refused to be intimidated or manipulated.

But the cost of maintaining that strength was beginning to make itself known in the aftermath.

"You okay?" Meadow asked quietly, his voice gentle with concern.

She nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure it was true. "Better than I expected, actually. I thought seeing him would... I don't know, make me doubt myself or regret leaving. But it just reminded me why I had to get away."

"He's exactly what I pictured," Flint said with disgust, bending to pick up the discarded envelope. "All surface charm hiding something rotten underneath."

"Should I open this?" he asked, holding up Magnolia's letter.

Marigold looked at the cream-colored paper, her sister's perfect handwriting visible even from a distance.

Once, receiving a letter from Magnolia would have been cause for excitement—sisters separated by circumstance finding ways to maintain connection.

Now, the sight of it filled her with nothing but exhaustion.

"Burn it," she said without hesitation. "Whatever she has to say, I don't need to hear it. That chapter of my life is closed."

Gus moved to take the letter from Flint's hands, his expression thoughtful. "Are you sure? Sometimes closure comes from understanding what people are thinking, even if you don't agree with it."

The suggestion was made with genuine care, offered without pressure or expectation. But Marigold found herself shaking her head before he'd even finished speaking.

"I have all the closure I need," she said firmly. "Magnolia made her choice when she betrayed me. Rowan made his when he humiliated me publicly. I don't need their explanations or justifications to move forward with my life."

The conviction in her own voice surprised her. Months ago, she would have agonized over the letter, would have read it multiple times looking for hidden meanings and signs of genuine remorse. But the woman she was becoming had no patience for that kind of emotional masochism.

"That's probably the healthiest response," Meadow observed, his tone carrying approval that warmed her more than she'd expected. "Some people think forgiveness requires engagement, but sometimes the most generous thing you can do for yourself is to simply move on."

"Rowan never was good at being told no," she said, surprising herself with how easily the words came. "Even when we were together, if something didn't go his way, he'd find ways to make it everyone else's problem. He couldn't accept that I might actually be happier without him."

The admission felt like releasing pressure from a valve she hadn't realized was stuck. How long had she been carrying the weight of his expectations, the fear that he might be right about her choices?

"What did he mean about remembering?" Flint asked, his expression troubled. "That sounded like a threat."

Marigold considered the question, thinking about Rowan's parting words and the subtle menace beneath his polished exterior.

"He's the type who keeps track of perceived slights," she said finally.

"He'll remember that I rejected him today, that you all made it clear he wasn't welcome.

But honestly? I don't care anymore. Let him remember.

Let him plot. I'm not the same person who was afraid of disappointing him. "

The truth of that statement settled into her bones like a revelation. She wasn't the same person—not the woman who'd shaped her life around others' expectations, who'd accepted crumbs of affection and called it love, who'd believed that her worth was determined by external validation.

"He also said some pretty nasty things about Cypress," Gus pointed out gently. "That felt personal."

"Rowan doesn't like anyone he perceives as competition," she explained, feeling oddly protective of her former college boyfriend despite their complicated history.

"And he especially doesn't like Omega males.

He's the type who thinks there are proper roles for everyone, and people who don't fit his categories threaten his worldview. "

The explanation felt inadequate for the viciousness of Rowan's attack, but she suspected there were deeper currents involved that she didn't fully understand. The history between the men of Willowbend was more complex than she'd realized, layers of connection and conflict that predated her arrival.

"Well," Meadow said finally, "he's gone now. And if he's smart, he'll stay gone."

There was something in his tone—a quiet promise of consequence—that made her believe Rowan would indeed think twice before returning uninvited. Whatever else might be said about the men who'd welcomed her here, they weren't people to be underestimated or dismissed.

"Thank you," she said, looking around at the three faces that had become so dear to her. "For standing with me. For making it clear he wasn't welcome. I don't think I could have handled that alone."

"You were handling it just fine," Flint assured her. "We were just backup singers in your show."

The gentle humor in his voice, the way he acknowledged her strength while also celebrating their support, made her chest tight with emotion. This was what community looked like—not the competitive hierarchy of her former world, but genuine partnership in facing life's challenges.

"Still," she insisted, "it meant everything to have you there. To know I wasn't facing him alone."

The admission hung in the air between them, weighted with significance that went beyond the immediate crisis. She was acknowledging something larger than just their support today—she was claiming them as her people, her chosen family, her pack in all the ways that mattered.

"You'll never face anything alone again," Meadow said quietly, his words carrying the weight of a vow. "Not if we have anything to say about it."