Chapter 48
Rowan's POV
These past few days, I'd been forcing myself not to bother her. Not to knock on her door, not to start conversations, not even to cross her path. Because I knew she didn't want to see me.
But this—this I could do. Even if she'd never know.
I copied the number and sent it to Eleanor, adding:
Rowan: [Here's her info. Remember—don't mention me.]
A few seconds later:
Eleanor: [Got it. But Rowan? You owe me a favor now.]
I stared at the message, a bitter smile tugging at my mouth.
Rowan: [Deal.]
---
I set the phone down and leaned back in my chair.
Still quiet upstairs.
Lena was in her room, probably reviewing documents or strategizing with Diana over the phone. She was busy now. Busy building her firm, busy moving forward, busy... forgetting me.
I closed my eyes.
I'd been thinking about it a lot these past few days—what I'd do differently if I could go back.
I'd have asked her, when she first proposed the contract marriage: "Why are you doing this?"
I'd have looked her in the eye on our wedding day and said: "I'll take care of you."
I'd have been there every time she needed me.
Instead of this. Sitting here with nothing but regrets, watching everything fall apart, powerless to stop it.
But what good were those thoughts now?
I opened my eyes, poured half a glass of whiskey, and downed it.
The burn in my throat did nothing to ease the cold weight in my chest.
I'd given Lena a referral without her knowing. I was monitoring Marcus to make sure he couldn't hurt her. I was keeping my distance, giving her space.
That was all I could do now.
Pathetic, wasn't it? I used to think I had her. Now I could only watch from afar, didn't even have the right to get close.
Lena's POV
The coffee in my hand had gone cold an hour ago, but I kept holding it anyway. Wednesday morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds of my new office—my office, not some glass box in a corporate tower where everyone knew my business. This place was smaller, quieter. The kind of quiet that let you actually think.
Rachel knocked twice before opening the door. "Someone named Eleanor Park just called. She found us through the website. Wants to schedule a consultation."
I glanced at my calendar—miraculously empty except for a contract review Diana had forwarded yesterday. "This afternoon work?"
"Two o'clock?"
"Perfect."
---
Eleanor arrived exactly on time. I liked that. She was mid-thirties, wearing a gray suit that looked expensive but not showy, and when she shook my hand, her grip was firm without trying to prove anything.
"Thanks for seeing me on short notice," she said, settling into the chair across from my desk.
"Of course. What's going on?"
She didn't waste time on pleasantries. "Last year, I did due diligence on a cross-border investment deal. Now the investors are claiming my report had 'critical errors' that cost them millions. They're threatening to sue."
I reached for the folder she'd placed on my desk. Two hundred pages, meticulously organized. Data sources cited, risk factors outlined, financial projections backed by third-party audits.
"Do you think your report had errors?" I asked, watching her face.
Her jaw tightened. "No. Every single data point is documented. But they've lined up expert witnesses who'll twist whatever they need to twist."
I flipped through another section. The work was solid—better than solid. "I'll need the complete project files. All communications with the client, raw data, everything."
"You believe me?" Something in her voice caught—surprise, maybe relief.
"I believe evidence," I said. "If your work holds up under scrutiny, we'll fight this."
She let out a breath I hadn't realized she was holding. "I talked to three firms before this. They all said the same thing: settle quietly, move on. One guy actually told me it would be 'cheaper than my reputation.'"
"That's not how I work."
"I'm starting to see that." She almost smiled. "How long do you need?"
"Give me until Saturday. We'll talk strategy then."
---
Thursday morning, Diana called. "The Miller housing case is being appealed. The deadline for our response is Monday, which means I'm buried until at least next week."
"Don't worry about it," I said, already mentally reshuffling my schedule. "I've got the Park case covered."
"You sure? I can try to—"
"Diana. Go win your case. I'm fine."
But Friday afternoon, "fine" became complicated.
The email arrived at 4:47 PM, from Thomas Crane at Hartley & Moore—one of those firms where the marble lobby costs more than most people's houses. The subject line: Re: Park Matter - Supplemental Evidence.
I opened it.
Crane's letter was three pages of aggressive posturing, complete with a so-called "supplemental evidence list" claiming Eleanor had deliberately concealed debt risks. I printed it out, grabbed a red pen, and started annotating.
By page two, I was annoyed. By page three, I was angry.
He was playing semantic games—conflating contingent liabilities with certain debts, misrepresenting standard industry practices, cherry-picking data points to build a narrative that fell apart under basic scrutiny.
I fired off an email to Eleanor: Need all communication records and data sources from the original project. Everything you have.
Her reply came back in under an hour, with file attachments that crashed my email twice.
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