Chapter 115
Lena's POV
The house felt too quiet. I remembered I had given Martha three days off since she needed to handle her family matters.
I dropped my bag by the entrance, kicked off my heels, and stood there for a moment just... existing. The hospital smell still clung to my hair despite two showers. My body felt heavy, drained in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion.
The sandwich I forced myself to make sat half-eaten on the kitchen counter twenty minutes later. I stared at it, trying to summon appetite. Trying to care.
The phone rang at eight sharp.
"Lena." Alexander's voice was steady, professional. "Data recovery's complete. Most of it came through—files, photos, text messages, call logs. We got it."
I set down what remained of my dinner. "What kind of content are we talking about?"
"Extensive. Photo archive going back years. Text message chains. Call records. Several video files." A pause. "It's all backed up and organized by date and file type. When do you want to pick it up?"
My fingers tightened around the phone. "Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock?"
"My office works. I'll have everything ready." Another pause, this one heavier. "Lena... do you want someone there when you go through it? Me, or Emily, or—"
"No." The word came out harder than I'd intended. I softened. "This is something I need to face alone. First, anyway."
"I understand." His tone shifted, more careful. "But if you find anything criminal in there—anything that could be used as evidence—you back it up immediately and call me. Don't just sit on it."
"I know the protocol, Alexander."
"I know you do. Just... be careful with this."
After we hung up, I stared at my phone screen until it went dark. Tomorrow. Tomorrow those files would be in my hands—whatever architecture of lies Marcus had built, whatever proof existed of his schemes and manipulations.
The thought made my stomach turn.
I wasn't sure I was ready to see it.
But ready or not, it was coming.
---
The doorbell rang at seven-thirty the next morning.
I'd been awake since six, nursing coffee and pretending to review case files. When I opened the door, a man in his late thirties stood in the hallway—dark suit, wire in his ear, the unmistakable bearing of former military.
"Ms. Grant. David Keller, head of your security detail." He extended a hand. "Mr. Reynolds arranged for us to meet this morning."
Of course he did.
I shook his hand. "Come in."
He stepped inside, pulled out a tablet. "I have five team members stationed around the building—two in the front, two in the back, and one monitoring the parking garage. We'll maintain a perimeter but stay out of your way. You won't see us unless there's a threat."
"And transportation?"
"One driver assigned to you full-time. Brian Rivera—he's downstairs now. Former Secret Service, top clearance. He'll take you wherever you need to go, wait as long as necessary, bring you home safe."
I studied David's face. Professional. Competent. No hint of the invasive surveillance I'd feared.
"I don't want reports going back to Rowan about my schedule. Just security briefings."
"Understood. Mr. Reynolds was very clear on that point." David met my eyes. "We're here to keep you safe, Ms. Grant. Not to monitor your life."
I nodded slowly. Hated that I needed this. Hated that Marcus had made it necessary.
But David seemed solid. His team seemed solid.
"All right," I said. "Let's try this."
"Thank you." He tapped something on his tablet. "Brian's bringing the car around now. Whenever you're ready."
Twenty minutes later, I was in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, watching Silverton roll past. Brian drove with the same quiet competence David had displayed—alert, professional, offering nothing beyond a polite "Good morning" when I'd gotten in.
I should have felt trapped. Should have chafed at this constraint on my independence.
Instead, I just felt... tired.
And maybe, underneath that, the smallest flicker of relief.
---
Alexander's tech studio occupied a bland commercial building near the financial district. I arrived at nine fifty-five, dressed in my sharpest suit. Armor.
Brian pulled up to the entrance. "I'll be here when you're ready, Ms. Grant."
"Thank you."
Alexander met me at the door with a sealed evidence bag.
"Everything's here." He set it on the desk between us. "The original phone—it powers on, but barely. And this." He tapped a small encrypted USB drive. "Complete backup. Organized, indexed, ready for review."
I picked up the bag. The phone inside looked pathetic—cracked screen, peeling case, barely held together. Hard to believe something so broken could hold so much damage.
"The drive's password-protected," Alexander continued. "I'm texting you the credentials now." He waited until I met his eyes. "You sure you don't want company for this? Someone there when you look?"
My throat felt tight. "I need to... process it first. See what I'm dealing with. Then I'll know who needs to be involved."
He nodded slowly. "Fair. But promise me—if there's anything that threatens your safety, anything at all, you call immediately."
"I will."
I left before he could say more.
---
Brian drove me to the office in silence. The evidence bag sat in my lap the whole way—this small, innocuous package that could detonate everything I thought I knew about my childhood.
By eleven, I was at my desk. Rachel brought coffee. Diana dropped off case files. I buried myself in work—contracts, depositions, client emails. The steady rhythm of professionalism that had always been my anchor.
The evidence bag went into my office safe.
Locked. Secured. Out of sight.
Tomorrow, I told myself. I'll look tomorrow.
Around three, my mother called.
"Lena." Vivian's voice was clipped, imperious as ever. "We need to discuss strategy for Nexus. I've been in contact with several board members, and with the right legal pressure, we can challenge this buyout. I need you to—"
"I'm not getting involved in Nexus's internal politics."
"This isn't politics, it's about salvaging what's left of our family's—"
"I have to go."
I ended the call before she could finish. Stared at my phone for a long moment, then forwarded her voicemail to a folder labeled "Grant Family—Evidence" and went back to work.