Chapter 4
Rowan's POV
The Bentley's engine ticked as it cooled in the driveway, the sound abnormally loud in the November silence. I watched Lena disappear into the house without a backward glance, her shoulders carrying that particular kind of exhaustion I'd seen more frequently these past weeks. The kind that had nothing to do with late nights at the office.
Three more weeks.
I stayed in the car longer than necessary, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
Movement in the upstairs window. A silhouette I'd recognize anywhere.
Damn.
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The living room was exactly as I'd left it that morning. I loosened my bow tie, reached for the cigar case on the side table. Cuban Cohibas, the ones I saved for nights that required pharmaceutical-grade numbness.
The flame caught on the second strike. I drew deeply, let the smoke fill my lungs, held it until my chest burned. Better than thinking about Lena's face on that terrace. Better than replaying her voice: You're exactly what we agreed you'd be. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Quite the performance tonight."
I didn't turn. Didn't need to. Mother's footsteps were distinctive—purposeful clicks against marble, each one a statement.
"Didn't realize you were home," I said, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.
"Clearly." She descended the stairs with that particular grace she'd never managed to teach me, settling into the armchair across from mine. "Jack mentioned you'd be back late."
"We stayed for the full program."
"How dutiful." Her eyes—the same steel gray as mine—tracked my movements as I reached for the crystal decanter. "Though I imagine it wasn't entirely pleasant."
I poured two fingers of Macallan, considered adding a third. "When is it ever?"
"Don't play games with me, Rowan." Her voice sharpened. "I spoke with Thomas Adams this afternoon. Your family attorney? The one who handled your marriage contract?"
My hand stilled on the glass. Fuck.
"He mentioned something interesting," Mother continued, her tone deceptively light. "Apparently, your contract with Lena is set to expire. Three weeks from now, in fact."
I took a long drink, savoring the burn. "Thomas needs to learn discretion."
"Thomas assumed I knew." She leaned forward, and there was nothing light in her expression now. "So let me get this straight—you had the audacity to sign a contract marriage without telling your family, and now you're planning to dissolve it just as quietly?"
"It's handled."
"Handled." She laughed, sharp and bitter. "You really are your father's son. All that intelligence, and still emotionally stunted as a teenager."
I set the glass down harder than intended. "What exactly do you want me to say?"
"How about the truth? Did you think we wouldn't notice? That Lena's been miserable for months? That you've been—" She gestured at me, her diamond bracelet catching the light. "Whatever this is. Avoidance? Denial? Willful stupidity?"
"We had an agreement. It's expiring. End of story."
"Is it?" Her gaze could have cut glass. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man who's about to make the biggest mistake of his life."
I already did. Two years ago, when I signed that goddamn contract.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"Don't I?" She rose, crossing to the window overlooking the lake. "I've watched you for two years, Rowan. Watched you pretend this was just business, just another deal to manage. And I've watched Lena—that beautiful, brilliant woman—slowly realize she married a coward."
The word landed like a physical blow. I crushed the cigar into the ashtray, ash scattering across marble.
"I'm not a coward."
"No?" She turned to face me. "Then why are you letting her go?"
"Because that's what she wants."
"And what do you want?"
The question hung in the air between us, impossible to answer. Or maybe too easy, and that was the problem.
"It doesn't matter what I want," I said finally. "The contract—"
"Oh, for God's sake, forget the contract!" Mother's voice cracked like a whip. "I'm asking about your feelings. Assuming you have any buried under all that calculated detachment."
"My feelings are irrelevant. We both knew what this was from the start."
"Did you?" She moved closer, her perfume—Chanel No. 5, same as always—cutting through the cigar smoke. "Because I've seen the way you look at her when you think no one's watching. Like she's the only solid thing in a shifting world."
Stop.
"I've also seen the way you push her away," she continued, relentless. "Every time she gets close. Every time it starts to feel like something more than your precious contract."
"You're reading too much into—"
"I'm reading exactly what's there." Her hand landed on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle. "You're terrified, Rowan. Terrified that if you admit you care, she'll have power over you. So instead, you hide behind legal agreements and emotional distance."
I stood abruptly, dislodging her hand. "This conversation is over."
"No, it isn't." She didn't move, didn't flinch. "Let me tell you what's going to happen. In three weeks, that contract expires. Lena walks away. And you—" Her voice softened, turned almost pitying. "You'll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been if you'd had the courage to be honest."
"I am being honest. We had a deal. I'm honoring it."
"You're being a fool." She collected her wrap from the chair, moved toward the stairs. "And someday, when you're sitting alone in this empty house, you'll realize that some deals aren't worth making."
She paused at the base of the staircase, looked back at me.
"That woman is worth ten of you, Rowan. Hell, she's worth a hundred. And the tragedy is, I think you know it."
Her footsteps faded upward. I stood in the sudden silence, staring at the cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling, trying to convince myself Mother was wrong.
Trying. Failing.
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