Chapter 179
Lena's POV
I woke to the faint scent of coffee and something else—something warm and almost sweet that didn't belong in my usual morning routine. For a moment I lay still, eyes closed, trying to place it. Then the events of last night came rushing back: Rowan's confession, his plea, the kiss that had felt like both an ending and a beginning.
My hand drifted across the mattress to the space beside me. Empty, but the pillow still held a ghost of warmth. He'd been here. It hadn't been a dream.
I sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around my waist, and pressed my fingers to my lips. They were slightly swollen, tender in a way that made my chest tighten. Part of me wanted to laugh at how surreal this all felt—Rowan Reynolds, the man who'd spent two years treating our marriage like a business transaction, had spent last night holding me and promising to try. To really try.
The other part of me, the part that had learned to protect itself by expecting nothing, whispered warnings I couldn't quite silence.
What if he regrets it? What if this was just a moment of weakness, and by the time I go downstairs he'll have retreated back behind those walls?
I forced myself out of bed, padding to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looked tired but softer somehow, like something in her had finally exhaled. I brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a loose braid, and told myself to stop overthinking.
Whatever happened next, I'd face it.
---
The sound of Martha humming reached me as I descended the stairs. She was in the living room, carefully taking down the string lights and gathering stray balloons into a large trash bag. The sight made my throat tighten—last night's decorations being dismantled, the magic fading back into ordinary life.
"Good morning, Miss Lena." Martha looked up with a warm smile. "Did you sleep well?"
"I did." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Thank you for... for everything last night. It was perfect."
"I'm glad." She tied off the bag and set it aside. "Mr. Reynolds was very particular about the details. He wanted to make sure everything was exactly right."
My heart did a small, traitorous flip. "He did?"
"Oh yes." Martha's eyes twinkled. "He's been planning it for over a week. Made lists, asked questions..." She paused, her expression turning gentle. "He cares about you very much, you know."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just nodded and murmured something about needing coffee. Martha gestured toward the kitchen with a knowing smile.
"He's in there now. Been up since six."
---
I found him at the stove, his back to me, stirring something in a pot with careful attention. He'd changed out of last night's clothes into a soft gray henley and dark jeans, his hair still slightly damp from a shower. The sight of him—so domestic, so present—made me freeze in the doorway.
This was Rowan Reynolds. The man who used to leave for work before I woke up, who'd spent our entire marriage maintaining a careful distance. And now here he was, cooking soup at seven in the morning like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He must have sensed me watching because he turned, and the smile that spread across his face was so genuine it nearly undid me.
"Morning." His voice was low, warm. "I wasn't sure if you'd be up yet."
"I..." I stepped into the kitchen, hyperaware of the space between us. "What are you doing?"
"Making breakfast." He lifted the spoon, blew on it gently, then held it out toward me. "Want to taste? I'm trying to get the ginger-to-honey ratio right."
I moved closer, letting him guide the spoon to my lips. The soup was light and soothing, perfectly balanced—exactly the kind of thing I'd crave on a slow morning. The realization that he knew that, that he'd paid enough attention to learn my preferences, made something crack open in my chest.
"It's real," I whispered.
Rowan's brow furrowed slightly. "What's real?"
I caught myself, forced a small smile. "Really good. The soup. It's really good."
He studied me for a moment, and I had the uncomfortable sense that he could see straight through my deflection. But instead of pushing, he just smiled again and set the spoon down.
"You smile more when you're caught off guard," he said quietly. "I like it."
Heat crept up my neck. I turned away, busying myself with getting plates from the cupboard, but I could feel his gaze following me. When I glanced back, he was still watching with that same soft expression, and my pulse kicked up another notch.
"Come on," he said, ladling soup into bowls. "Sit with me."
---
We settled at the small breakfast table by the window, morning light streaming across the surface. Rowan had made toast too—lightly buttered, just how I preferred—and there was fresh fruit arranged in a bowl between us. It felt almost aggressively normal, and yet nothing about it felt routine.
"What's on your agenda today?" he asked, passing me a napkin.
"I need to see Diana." I took a sip of soup, grateful for something to focus on besides the way he was looking at me. "There's something important I need to tell her about the Katya case."
His expression sharpened slightly. "Is everything okay?"
"It's... complicated." I hesitated, then decided there was no point in hiding it from him. "Emily and I visited Derek Walsh yesterday. Maria's ex-husband. And we met their daughter, Lily."
Rowan set down his spoon. "And?"
"And I think Maria wasn't the buyer in the organ trafficking case. I think she was trying to save Lily." The words came out heavy, weighted with all the implications I'd been turning over in my mind since yesterday. "Lily had a kidney transplant. She's the one who benefited from Katya's... from what happened to Katya."
"Jesus." Rowan leaned back in his chair, processing. "So Maria was desperate. Caught between saving her daughter and participating in something horrific."
"Exactly." I felt a rush of relief that he understood immediately, that I didn't have to explain why this mattered. "Diana deserves to know. She's been carrying so much guilt about that case, and this... it doesn't absolve anyone, but it changes the context."
"It does." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "Do you want me to drive you?"
I started to say no automatically—old habits, old defenses—but then I remembered last night. His promise to try. My decision to let him.
"Actually," I said slowly, "that would be nice."
The smile he gave me was worth the small surrender.