All Chapters of My Enemy [BL]: Chapter 231 - Chapter 240

By the time Rowan’s SUV sputtered and came to a quiet halt on the side of the narrow back road, the snow had thickened into a swirling curtain. The pines stood tall on either side, like silent judges overseeing the situation. The only sounds were the soft hiss of steam escaping from the hood and the occasional plop of snowflakes falling from the branches. We were close enough to town that the GPS had been counting down the miles with a smug air, making the breakdown feel like a cruel twist of fate. Rowan popped open the hood with a sigh that suggested he’d already resigned himself to the situation, peering inside as if he were trying to negotiate with a stubborn dragon. I hovered nearby, wrapped in my coat and the wool one he’d lent me on top, feeling quite useless...like a chocolate teapot, as the expression goes. "Hand me that tool." He said. "the... uh... wrench thingy?" I offered, waving vaguely at the tools he’d unceremoniously pulled from the trunk. He shot me an amused

Rachel led us down a narrow hallway that had a faint smell of fried onions mixed with lemon cleaner. She kept apologizing as she turned on a single overhead bulb that barely lit the place. The apartment was cozy but overflowing with the kind of clutter that builds up when life just keeps adding things without ever taking any away—magazines piled high on every surface, faded floral curtains tightly drawn against the snowy night, and a glimpse of a tiny kitchen through a beaded curtain that jingled as we walked by. The sink was full of dirty dishes, laundry was spilling out of an overflowing basket by the door, and every wall seemed to be covered with old, yellowed photos and trinkets that must have been gifts at some point. "Sorry about the mess," Rachel said, scooping a pile of unfolded towels off the sagging couch and tossing them onto an already overloaded armchair. "I know you’re used to a different kind of living, Rowan. A fancy big house, staff, all that. I’ve been working

I noticed Rowan take that in, his shoulders relaxing a little even though the tension in his jaw remained. He nodded slowly, accepting it because it aligned with the mother he remembered from the journal—flawed, scared, but fiercely principled. "Then who was L.S. to her?" I asked, shifting closer to Rowan on the sagging couch. "Why did she keep writing about feeling so guilty every time they got together? She said she hoped you’d understand if you ever found out." Rachel closed her eyes for a long moment, rubbing her temples like the question was physically painful. The radiator clanked again, and her mother’s wheelchair creaked as the old woman adjusted slightly, still watching us with that eerie silence. "Do you two really believe she was murdered?" Rachel finally whispered, her eyes opening to meet Rowan’s. "Because to everyone else—to the police, to newspapers, even for a long time to me—it appeared to be just a tragic car accident. Black ice, bad luck, wrong place at the wro

A few minutes later, the conversation quieted down into a stillness typical of when you’ve run out of questions but still haven’t figured everything out. Outside, the soft snow we’d admired before had turned wild-thick flakes swirling viciously against the window, the streetlamp across the street a mere hazy glow in the storm. The wind howled around the corners of the little house, rattling the loose pane in the living room window like it was trying to find a way inside. Rachel got up to clear the empty water glasses and paused at the curtain, pulling it back just enough to peek outside. "Lord have mercy," she muttered, letting the curtain fall again. "That’s become a full-blown snowstorm. What a bummer you two have to head back out in this mess." She turned to us, worry creasing her brow. "You’ve got a car waiting, right? Something with four-wheel drive at least?" Rowan rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish half-smile spreading across his face. "Actually... the SUV broke down a fe

I was in this tiny bathroom, steam swirling around me from the kettle water Rachel had insisted we heat up in batches for some semblance of a hot shower. "I’m sure you aren’t used to this tactic." Rachel had said with a small chuckle, but I shocked her by saying that I did actually, I was from a underprivileged home as well before my mom got remarried. To which she smiled, "Lucky, boy." She then turned to her mute mother with a mock glare. "I wish my mom married a billionaire instead of some factory worker who abandons his kids." I think the old lady rolled her eyes in response, but I wasn’t too sure. It was cramped enough that I had to step around the sink to close the door, but oddly enough, it felt cozy and faded blue tiles, a shower curtain with tiny yellow ducks that had probably looked cute back in the nineties, and a pile of fluffy towels all smelling like lavender fabric softener. Afterward, I felt human again, skin pink from the heat, hair damp and twisted up in one