Chapter 158
Rowan's POV
The apartment felt different when we got back—quieter, somehow, despite the security team's discreet presence in the hallway. Lena stood in the entryway for a moment, her hand still on the doorframe, as if she needed the support.
"I'm going to lie down for a bit," she said without looking at me. Her voice was steady, but I caught the exhaustion underneath—the kind that came from holding yourself together through sheer force of will for too long.
"Of course." I kept my tone neutral. "Let me know if you need anything."
She nodded once and disappeared down the hall. I heard her bedroom door click shut with careful precision, the way she did everything—controlled, deliberate, giving nothing away.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, then headed to the guest room I'd been occupying for the past two weeks. The space was impersonal, untouched except for my laptop on the desk and a few changes of clothes in the closet. I'd kept it that way deliberately. Temporary. Professional. A bodyguard's quarters, not a home.
Because that's what this was supposed to be. Temporary.
I sat on the edge of the bed and loosened my tie, staring at nothing in particular. Marcus Grant was in custody. The immediate threat was contained. The security team could handle any residual concerns. There was no tactical reason for me to stay here anymore.
Which meant I'd be moving out soon. Back to my own place. Back to the life I'd had before all this started.
The thought settled in my chest like a stone.
I should have felt relief. Mission accomplished. Lena was safe. The contract marriage was over. We'd both get to move on with our lives, just like she'd wanted.
Instead, I felt... hollow.
I leaned back against the headboard and closed my eyes, trying to pinpoint when exactly everything had shifted. When had "protecting my ex-wife out of obligation" turned into this—this constant awareness of her presence, this need to make sure she was okay, this visceral discomfort at the thought of going back to separate lives?
The past two weeks played through my mind in fragments.
Lena at the hospital, her hand trembling as she signed Diana's intake forms, her voice barely above a whisper when she asked if Diana would be okay.
Lena at the courthouse, walking up those steps with her spine straight and her chin up, even though I'd felt her hand shake when she briefly touched my arm before going in. The way she'd answered every question with surgical precision, never once letting her voice break, never giving Marcus the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
Lena in the car afterward, when I'd driven us out of the city because I couldn't stand watching her maintain that perfect composure for one more second. The way the wind had pulled her hair loose from its careful arrangement. The way she'd finally, finally let herself just breathe.
And before all that—the nights I'd heard her moving around her room at 3 AM, the mornings I'd found her already at her desk with evidence files spread out like she was building a fortress out of facts and legal precedent. The way she'd look up when I brought her coffee, surprise flickering across her face like she still wasn't used to someone just... being there.
I'd watched her navigate trauma and terror with the same ruthless competence she brought to corporate law. I'd seen her break down and pull herself back together. I'd seen her scared and furious and heartbreakingly vulnerable, and through all of it, she'd never once asked me to fix it for her.
She'd just asked me to stay.
And I had. Not because of duty or guilt or some misguided white knight complex. I'd stayed because watching Lena Grant fight her way through hell with nothing but her intelligence and her spine-deep stubbornness was the most magnificent thing I'd ever witnessed.
I'd stayed because somewhere along the way, I'd stopped being able to imagine being anywhere else.
The realization should have been alarming. Instead, it felt inevitable.
During our marriage, we'd been as physically intimate as two people could be. I'd known the sounds she made, the way her body responded, the exact pressure that made her breath hitch. But I hadn't known her. Hadn't known about the nightmares, or the way she took her coffee when she wasn't performing the role of perfect corporate wife.
I hadn't known she'd spent the two years caring for me that I'd been too blind to see.
That last thought brought me up short. Emily had mentioned it once, obliquely, during one of our tense conversations in the hospital waiting room. "You have no idea how long she's been in your orbit, do you?" At the time, I'd been too focused on Marcus and security protocols to really hear it.
But now...
Now I wanted to know everything. Not the surface-level details I could observe or deduce, but the real things. What she thought about when she couldn't sleep. What made her laugh when she wasn't guarding herself. What she'd been like before Marcus and Vivian had taught her that showing vulnerability was dangerous.
I wanted to understand how I'd been so catastrophically stupid as to have this woman in my life and somehow miss her entirely.
My phone buzzed. David, checking in about tomorrow's security rotation. I sent back a confirmation, then stared at the screen for a moment longer.
Emily would know. She was Lena's best friend, had been for years. She'd been there through everything, including—I suspected—whatever feelings Lena had harbored during our marriage that I'd been too self-absorbed to notice.
Emily also currently disliked me, with good reason.
I pulled up her contact information anyway. If I wanted to really understand Lena, I needed to start by talking to someone who actually saw her clearly. Even if that conversation was going to be uncomfortable as hell.
I typed out a message: Would you be willing to meet for coffee? I'd like to talk about Lena.
The response came back almost immediately: Took you long enough. Tomorrow, 2 PM, Seventh Sense Café. Don't be late.
I set the phone aside and sat in the quiet guest room, listening to the muffled sounds of the city outside and the even quieter sounds of Lena moving around in her own room down the hall.
Two weeks ago, I'd moved in here with a clear tactical objective: keep Lena safe until the threat was neutralized. Mission parameters, entrance and exit strategies, risk assessments. Clean. Professional. Temporary.
But at some point, without my quite noticing when, this had stopped being a protection detail and started being... something else. Something that made the thought of packing up and leaving feel less like mission completion and more like abandonment.
I thought about the way Lena had looked at me in the car today, when I'd reached over to brush her hair back from her face. The way her breath had caught. The way she'd leaned in, just slightly, before I'd chickened out and pulled away.
I thought about going back to my empty Estate, to the life I'd had before—meetings and acquisitions and carefully managed public appearances. Coming home to silence. Eating dinner alone. Not knowing if Lena was okay, if she'd eaten, if the nightmares were back.
The hollowness in my chest deepened.
I'd spent two years in a marriage with her and somehow managed to keep her at arm's length the entire time. I'd told myself it was professional, clean, uncomplicated. The truth was I'd been a coward. I'd wanted the benefits of having Lena in my life—her composure, her ability to navigate any social situation with perfect grace, and herself—without having to risk actually knowing her.
Without having to risk her knowing me.
And now, when I'd finally started to see her clearly, when I'd finally started to want something real instead of convenient—
Now the arrangement was over. The threat was contained. I'd be moving out, and we'd go back to being... what? Polite acquaintances? People who occasionally ran into each other at business events and made small talk about the weather?