Chapter 161
Rowan's POV
"I don't know if she still has it," Emily said, reading my expression with unnerving accuracy. "And even if she does, you don't get to demand to see it. You don't get to walk into her life now and claim ownership of her past just because you finally pulled your head out of your ass."
"I know." My voice came out rough. "I'm not—I wouldn't—"
"Good." Emily drained the last of her coffee and stood. "Because if you hurt her again, Rowan, you'll answer to me. And unlike her, I won't just quietly disappear."
She turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I think she still cares about you. God knows why, but she does. Don't waste it."
Then she was gone, leaving me alone with two empty coffee cups and the wreckage of everything I thought I'd understood about my marriage.
---
I sat in my car for twenty minutes after leaving the café, unable to turn the key in the ignition. The steering wheel was cold under my hands. Outside, the city moved on—people hurrying to lunch meetings, tourists taking photos, delivery trucks double-parked with their hazards flashing. Normal life, continuing as if the ground hadn't just shifted beneath me.
Lena had loved me.
Not now, not recently, but years ago. Back when I'd never notice her. Back when I'd treated kindness as mere efficiency and devotion as convenient assistance.
The thought made my chest tight. What had she written? Had she documented every time I'd looked past her, every time I'd mentioned Nora's name, every time I'd made her feel invisible? Or had she recorded hope—moments where she'd thought I might finally see her?
Both possibilities were unbearable.
I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Emily: Thank you for being honest with me.
Her response came quickly: Don't thank me. Just don't screw this up again.
I set the phone down and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. The past two years replayed in my mind with sickening clarity. Lena, agreeing to the contract marriage with barely a hesitation. Lena, who'd moved into the lake house and arranged her schedule around mine without complaint. Lena, who'd attended every business dinner and charity gala and smiled for the cameras and never once asked me for anything beyond basic courtesy.
She'd done it all while carrying feelings I'd never suspected. While hoping, maybe, that proximity would turn obligation into something real.
And I'd given her nothing. Less than nothing. I'd kept her at arm's length, maintained professional distance, and congratulated myself on how cleanly we'd managed to separate business from emotion.
What a fucking fool I'd been.
My phone buzzed again—Jack, this time, with an update on the security detail at Lena's building. I sent back an acknowledgment and started the car. The drive back to the apartment was automatic, muscle memory guiding me through traffic while my mind stayed trapped in the past.
By the time I pulled into the parking garage, I'd made a decision. I couldn't undo the damage I'd done. Couldn't reclaim the years I'd wasted or erase the pain I'd caused. But I could stop running from it. Stop hiding behind excuses about timing and circumstances and professional boundaries.
I could try to be the person she'd once thought I might become.
The elevator ride up felt interminable. When I finally reached the apartment, it was empty—Lena had texted earlier about going to the office to handle some paperwork. The silence was oppressive. I stood in the living room, my gaze drawn inexorably toward her closed study door.
The journal could be in there. Tucked into a drawer, maybe, or filed away on a bookshelf. It would be easy to look. She'd never have to know.
The temptation lasted less than ten seconds before shame extinguished it. I'd already violated her trust in a thousand small ways. I wouldn't add this to the list.
Instead, I went to the kitchen and started making coffee, the ritual giving my hands something to do. While it brewed, I pulled out my laptop and tried to focus on the Marcus case files Jack had sent. The words blurred together. All I could see was Lena at twenty-two, writing in a journal about a man too blind to notice her.
My phone buzzed with a work email. I ignored it.
Another buzz—a text from Colin: Drinks tonight? You might need one.
I sent back a declining response and pocketed the phone. What I needed wasn't a drink. It was a time machine. Failing that, I needed to figure out how to tell Lena that I finally understood what I'd been too stupid to see before.
That I was sorry. That I wanted a chance to know her—really know her—without contracts or obligations or careful distance. That somewhere in the wreckage of our failed marriage, I'd started to care about her in a way that had nothing to do with duty.
The apartment door opened. Lena's voice carried from the entryway: "Martha, I'm back. No, I'm fine, just needed to—oh."
She'd spotted me in the kitchen. I turned, coffee mug in hand, and found her standing in the doorway with her briefcase and a slightly wary expression.
"I didn't know you'd be here," she said.
"I had a meeting downtown." The lie came easily. "Thought I'd work from here this afternoon."
She nodded, already moving toward her study with the careful efficiency I'd come to recognize as her default. "I'll be in my office if you need anything."
"Lena."
She paused, one hand on the study door. "Yes?"
I should have said it then. Should have told her I'd talked to Emily, that I knew about the journal, that I was sorry for every moment I'd failed to see her. But the words tangled in my throat, and what came out instead was, "Are you hungry? I could order lunch."
Her expression softened slightly. "I'm okay. But thank you."
Then she disappeared into the study, and I was left standing in the kitchen with cold coffee and the weight of everything I still hadn't said.