Chapter 38
Rowan's POV
I returned to the study and closed the door behind me, then stood by the window and lit a cigar.
Outside, the estate lights outlined the manicured hedges in clean geometric patterns. I inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine mix with cold air fill my lungs, but it did nothing to ease the strange tightness in my chest.
My mind kept circling back to the scene in the dining room—Lena sitting across from my mother, her expression relaxed, even smiling at one point.
That kind of smile was rare.
Not the polite curve of lips she wore at social functions to maintain appearances, but something genuine. Something unguarded.
She'd looked at ease with my mother in a way I rarely saw.
I remembered how calmly she'd mentioned quitting Madison & Partners. Her tone had been so even, as if she were describing someone else's life. No complaint, no anger—just that decisive finality of "this matter is closed."
She never let herself be mistreated professionally.
When it was time to fight back, she flipped the table without hesitation.
But—
I tapped ash into the tray, my gaze drifting across the dark lawn while my thoughts drifted further back.
Why was she so different with her parents?
I'd accompanied her to Grant House plenty of times. Every visit, Vivian and Marcus's attention had been on me—asking about new projects we could collaborate on, what connections I could introduce, even directly proposing Reynolds Industries invest in some Nexus venture.
And Lena?
She'd sit beside them, quiet as a shadow.
Occasionally Vivian would send her to the kitchen to help, or tell her to pour tea, clear dishes. She'd comply without a word.
That compliance—it was nothing like the woman who'd dominated boardrooms at Madison & Partners.
I'd assumed it was just her being respectful to family.
But now, thinking about it—
Was it really respect?
Or did she simply have no room to say "no" in that house?
I thought about tonight, when she'd told my mother how Vivian had demanded she "fulfill her duty and renew the contract."
Her tone had been flat, but I'd heard the fury beneath it.
"I've done two years. That's enough."
In that moment, I'd suddenly understood—
She'd never been treated as a daughter in that house.
She was more like... a tool.
A tool to maintain a marriage, maintain family reputation, maintain business alliances.
I stubbed out the cigar and walked to my desk, picking up my phone.
After a few seconds of hesitation, I texted Jack.
[Investigate Lena's childhood. Start from the beginning. I want details.]
After hitting send, I stared at the screen.
Something felt off. Uneasy.
Like there was something I'd been missing all along.
---
Lena's POV
I didn't know when I finally fell asleep.
I only remembered lying in bed, Marcus's threatening messages cycling through my mind on repeat—what those "videos" could be, what would happen if he actually released them...
Then consciousness slipped into darkness.
In the dream, I was a child again.
Seven or eight years old, maybe. Wearing a pale blue dress, standing in Grant House's dining room.
Dinner was laid out on the table, but the place in front of me was empty.
"You made me angry again today." Vivian's voice came from across the table, cold as winter lake water.
I kept my head down, fingers clutching my skirt.
"I... I didn't mean to..."
"Didn't mean to?" She laughed, sharp and mirthless. "You never mean to. But what's the result? How much energy do I waste managing you every day? I gave birth to you to bring harmony to this family, to make your father want to stay home. And what do you do?"
She paused, her voice dropping lower. "You only make people angry."
I wanted to defend myself, but my throat felt blocked. No words would come.
At the far end of the table, Marcus ate without looking up, as if none of this concerned him.
When he finished, he stood and grabbed his coat.
"I'm going out."
"Again?" Vivian's tone was accusatory.
"Company business." He didn't even glance at her before walking out.
The door slammed shut.
Vivian sat there, her face pale with rage.
Then she looked at me, her eyes full of disgust.
"This is all because of you."
---
The dream jumped.
It was late at night.
I was so hungry I couldn't sleep, my stomach cramping.
From afternoon until now, I'd eaten nothing.
I crept downstairs carefully, barefoot on the cold floor, terrified of making any sound.
The kitchen light was still on.
I pushed the door open, reaching for bread—
Footsteps behind me.
I froze.
Turned around to find Marcus standing in the doorway.
He was drunk, reeking of alcohol, his eyes both unfocused and vicious.
"Middle of the night... what the hell are you sneaking around for?"
"I... I was just..."
"Just what?" He moved closer, voice rising sharply. "Stealing food? Your mother told you no dinner, and you're down here stealing?"
"I wasn't—"
"No? Then what are you doing in the kitchen?"
He raised his hand.
I stepped back instinctively, but he was faster.
His palm cracked across my face.
"Don't hit me..." I sobbed, begging. "Dad, please don't hit me..."
But he didn't listen.
Another blow landed on my shoulder, pain nearly buckling my knees.
"You're nothing but a burden! Your mother breaks herself trying to raise you right, and this is how you repay her?"
"Please... don't..."
My voice got smaller, more desperate.
---
"Don't hit me..."
I bolted upright, gasping.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Cold sweat soaked through my pajamas.
The room was dark except for faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
I gulped air, needing several seconds to realize—it was just a dream.
I lifted my hand to my face.
No marks. No bruises.
But the fear felt real, as if it had just happened.
I sat up fully, leaning against the headboard, trying to steady my breathing.
This wasn't the first time.
After marrying Rowan, when we'd shared a bed, I'd never had these nightmares.
But whenever I slept alone—business trips, or these past few nights in separate rooms—the dreams came back.
Like suppressed memories waiting for me to lower my guard before crawling out.
I closed my eyes, trying to recall my actual childhood.
But those images were all blurred.
I couldn't remember specifics.
Just fragments—being hit, being yelled at, being made to stand facing the wall for hours, being denied meals...
And an inexplicable dread, like something worse had happened that my brain refused to let me remember.
I thought about Marcus's threat earlier today.
"I have videos."
Videos?
What videos?
I'd never known he'd recorded anything.
If they really existed... what would they show?
Could they be connected to those vague, unreachable memories?
My fingers unconsciously tightened around the comforter.
The pressure in my chest grew heavier.
I told myself to stop thinking about it.
There was no point dwelling on this now.
But fear kept rising like a tide, threatening to drown me.
Outside, wind rustled through branches, creating soft scraping sounds against the window.
I sat there in the dark, knowing sleep wouldn't come again.