Chapter 2
Lena's POV
The next morning arrived too quickly. I sat behind my mahogany desk at Madison & Partners, reviewing merger documents with mechanical precision. My office on the thirty-second floor offered a panoramic view of Silverton's skyline, but I kept my eyes on the papers. The words blurred together—asset valuations, due diligence reports, liability clauses. All routine. All meaningless against the weight of last night's conversation.
"Morning, Lena!" My assistant, Rachel, breezed in with her usual enthusiasm, setting a steaming cup of coffee on my desk. "You won't believe what I saw last night at The Meridian. This guy proposed right in the middle of the restaurant—orchestra, roses, the whole production. It was like something out of a movie."
My pen stilled against the contract. "How romantic."
"I know, right? The way he looked at her when he got down on one knee..." Rachel sighed dreamily. "That's what real love looks like. Not like these transactional marriages we see in our clientele."
If only you knew. I took a sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground me. "Did she say yes?"
"Of course! She was crying, he was crying, half the restaurant was crying." Rachel laughed. "When you find the right person, you just know, you know?"
"Mm." I turned back to my documents, but the words might as well have been hieroglyphs.
Rachel's story had cracked open a door I'd kept firmly shut. My mind drifted, pulling me back two years...
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The office was dark except for my desk lamp. It was past midnight, and Madison & Partners had that hollow quality buildings get when emptied of life. I'd been reviewing the Reynolds Industries acquisition documents for twelve hours straight, double-checking every clause, every potential liability.
"Still here?"
I looked up to find Rowan Reynolds himself standing in my doorway, holding two cups of coffee. He wore a charcoal suit despite the late hour, collar loosened, tie absent.
"The deal won't close itself," I said, accepting the coffee gratefully. "Besides, someone needs to ensure your company doesn't leave any loose ends."
He settled into the chair across from my desk, studying me with those calculating eyes. "You're thorough. My team speaks highly of your work."
"It's what I'm paid for."
"Is it?" He leaned back. "Or is it what Vivian Grant expects from her daughter?"
The mention of my mother made my shoulders tense. I kept my voice neutral. "Both can be true."
"They usually are in families like ours." He sipped his coffee. "The expectations, the obligations. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we just... opted out."
I set down my pen. "Opted out?"
"You know what I mean. The endless pressure to marry correctly, align properly, produce heirs on schedule." His smile was sardonic. "As if we're breeding stock rather than people."
The words hung between us, dangerous in their honesty. I should have deflected, returned to safe professional ground. Instead, I heard myself saying, "What if there was another way?"
His eyebrow arched. "I'm listening."
My heart hammered, but my voice remained steady. "A contract. Clear terms, defined timeline, mutual benefit. All the advantages of a strategic marriage without the... complications."
"A business arrangement."
"Exactly. Two years, maybe three. Long enough to satisfy our families, stabilize our positions. Then a clean dissolution."
He was quiet for so long I thought I'd miscalculated. Then: "You've thought about this."
"I think about everything." I met his gaze directly. "It's logical. We both need solutions to the same problem. Why not solve it together?"
"And feelings?"
"Are irrelevant to the contract."
Something flickered in his expression—amusement, perhaps, or something darker. "You're proposing a marriage stripped of all pretense."
"I'm proposing honesty," I corrected. "How many marriages in our circle are genuine anyway? At least this way, we both know exactly where we stand."
---
The memory faded as Rachel's voice pulled me back. "Earth to Lena? You okay?"
"Fine." I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at the same paragraph for five minutes. "Just thinking."
"About?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Anyone special?"
Special. The word tasted bitter. "About the Henderson acquisition. We need those numbers by noon."
Rachel's face fell slightly, but she nodded. "Right. Back to the grind."
My phone buzzed as she left. A text from Jack Harrison, Rowan's assistant: "Mrs. Reynolds, Mr. Reynolds asked me to remind you about The Oak Club charity gala this Saturday. Car will arrive at 6:30 PM."
Always through intermediaries now. Even our communication had been outsourced.
Another memory surfaced unbidden...
---
"The families expect certain... appearances," Rowan had said, two weeks after signing our contract. We were in his study at Lakeview, papers spread across his desk like business reports.
"Of course." I kept my voice neutral.
"My mother's already planning dinner parties. Your mother's been calling about charity events." He slid a folder toward me—not commands, just information. "My assistant put together a calendar of mandatory appearances."
I flipped through the pages. Galas, fundraisers, family dinners. All carefully spaced, just enough to maintain the image.
"Manageable," I said.
"That's what I thought." He moved to a wall safe, returning with a velvet box. "The family ring. Mom insisted."
Inside sat a three-carat diamond in an antique setting. Beautiful, traditional, heavy with expectation.
"It's just for the public events," he clarified, his tone matter-of-fact.
"I understand." I took the box, our fingers briefly touching. He pulled back immediately, returning to his desk.
"The announcement should happen soon. The family spring gala, perhaps. Natural setting, plenty of witnesses."
"Fine." I closed the box. "Anything else?"
He looked at me then, something unreadable in his expression. "No. That covers it."
But there had been more, hadn't there? The actual proposal, performed for an audience of Silverton's elite...
The ballroom had glittered with crystal and candlelight. I'd worn a midnight blue gown—my choice, not his. Rowan had found me on the terrace, away from the crowd, both of us knowing it was time.
"Ready?" he'd asked quietly.
"As I'll ever be."
He'd led me back inside, timing it perfectly—just as the music lulled, just as conversation naturally quieted. Everyone saw him drop to one knee. Everyone heard my rehearsed gasp of surprise.
"Lena Grant," he'd said, loud enough for the room but looking only at me, "will you marry me?"
The ring had slipped onto my finger with practiced ease. My "yes" had come out clear, convincing. The room had erupted in applause while we stood there, playing our parts to perfection.
"Well done," he'd murmured against my ear as people swarmed to congratulate us.
"You too," I'd replied, smiling for the cameras, already counting down the days.
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