Chapter 63
Lena's POV
I'd gotten good at performing.
Two years of contract marriage had taught me how to smile at the right moments, how to hold my posture just so, how to look perfectly composed even when everything inside me was crumbling. Tonight was no different—except that across the table sat the one person I genuinely didn't want to disappoint.
Isabelle Reynolds had always treated me with more warmth than my own mother ever had. Even now, knowing that Rowan and I had signed the papers this morning, she'd insisted on this dinner. Called it "maintaining family bonds." Called me family.
The word sat heavy in my chest.
"So, Lena," Isabelle said, setting down her wine glass. Her tone was gentle, but I recognized the steel underneath. "What are your plans now? For the future, I mean."
I reached for my water, buying myself a moment. "I'm focusing on the firm. Diana and I have several promising cases lined up—"
"I'm not asking about work, dear." Isabelle's smile was knowing. "I'm asking about you. Your personal life. Marriage."
I hesitated. "I... I have considered it. If there's a suitable man, I'll still get married."
"Well, you should." She leaned forward slightly. "And I don't want you thinking that just because my son is an emotionally stunted idiot, marriage itself is hopeless."
I knew Isabel would respect my choice, but this still surprised me.
Rowan's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Mother—"
"Am I wrong?" Isabelle turned to him with raised eyebrows. "Are you not an emotionally stunted idiot?"
I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to laugh despite everything. Or maybe to cry. I couldn't quite tell which impulse was stronger.
"I'm sitting right here," Rowan said flatly.
"I'm aware. I gave birth to you." Isabelle turned back to me, her expression softening. "My point is, Lena, that there definitely are good men out there. Men who know how to communicate. Men who don't run away from their feelings and hide behind contracts and cold professionalism."
"Am I even your son?" Rowan muttered. "Or did you pick me up from somewhere and just forgot to mention it?"
"Of course you're my son," Isabelle said. "Unfortunately, you didn't inherit my better qualities. You're just like your father—completely unromantic, terrible at expressing emotion—" She paused, then delivered the killing blow with perfect timing. "Actually, no. That's not fair to your father. At least he knew how to cherish me. You, on the other hand..." She trailed off with an eloquent sigh.
Rowan's jaw tightened. I could see him searching for a comeback, and when he found it, his tone was defensive. "Dad's not exactly around much either. He leaves you alone here while he's off building the business empire. When's the last time he came home, anyway?"
"That's different," Isabelle said immediately. "Your father calls me every night. He includes me in decisions. He makes me feel valued, even from a distance." Her voice softened. "He shows me I matter."
The implication hung in the air. Unlike you.
I glanced down at my plate. The food was excellent—Isabelle had clearly remembered my preferences—but I found myself pushing it around more than eating. Part of me wished I had this kind of relationship with someone—brutal honesty wrapped in genuine love and care.
"Anyway," Isabelle continued, turning her attention back to me, "marriage does have its advantages, Lena. Companionship. Partnership. Support." She paused, and I saw the dangerous glint in her eye a second too late. "And let's be honest—even if Rowan fails spectacularly at emotional intimacy, at least the physical side was satisfactory, wasn't it?"
I blinked.
"Mother," Rowan said, his voice strangled.
For a moment, I couldn't quite process what had just happened. Isabelle had just asked me about my sex life with her son. At the dinner table. While he was sitting right there.
"What?" Isabelle looked between us innocently. "I'm simply pointing out that physical compatibility matters in a relationship. It's a valid consideration for future partnerships."
"This conversation is over." Rowan stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm done eating."
"Sit down," Isabelle said mildly. "We haven't had dessert yet."
"I don't want dessert."
"Then you can watch Lena and me enjoy it."
I reached for my water glass, partly to have something to do with my hands, partly to hide the faint pull at the corner of my mouth. Rowan's ears had gone red—actually red—and he was studiously avoiding looking at either of us.
It was absurd. The whole situation was absurd.
And somehow, that absurdity punctured something in my chest. The heaviness that had been sitting there all evening—the weight of signed papers and final goodbyes and pretending I was fine—lightened just a fraction.
Rowan remained standing for another moment, then slowly sank back into his chair. His expression was thunderous. "Can we please change the subject?"
"Of course, dear." Isabelle's tone was perfectly gracious, but I caught the small, satisfied smile on her face.
The tension had broken. Not disappeared, but no longer suffocating. The careful politeness, the brittle civility that Rowan and I had been maintaining all evening had cracked just enough to let us breathe.
Mission accomplished.
The conversation shifted to safer topics after that, and eventually dinner wound down.
"Well," Isabelle said cheerfully, "I think that's enough family bonding for one night. Lena, dear, would you like to stay with me this night?"
"I'm fine, thank you." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "I should probably get going."
"I'll walk you out," Rowan said immediately.
"I drove myself—"
"I know." He was already standing. "I'll walk you to your car."