Chapter 10
Lena's POV
I wanted to say something. Explain that it wasn't about him being embarrassing or unsuitable. That the problem was me—the girl who'd proposed this arrangement with a fragile hope hidden beneath layers of logic. The girl who'd thought maybe, just maybe, if they spent enough time together, he might look at her the way he used to look at Nora. Actually see her.
Two years of slowly realizing that hope was a miscalculation. That you couldn't logic your way into someone's heart. That physical intimacy without emotional connection just left you feeling emptier than before.
Two years of becoming the one thing I'd sworn I'd never be—my mother. Fooling myself that a legal document could substitute for love.
But I didn't say any of that.
"The meeting's at two tomorrow," I said instead. "I'll have the preliminary assessment ready."
He nodded once, still not looking at me. Then he was gone, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.
I stood in the living room for a long time after, staring at nothing. My reflection in the dark window looked like a stranger. Composed. Controlled. Perfectly put together.
Empty.
Outside, the lake was black and still.
My phone buzzed. Rachel, sending the updated files for tomorrow's meeting. I opened my laptop, pulled up the documents. Work. That was something I could control. Something that made sense.
The Reynolds Industries European expansion. Regulatory frameworks. Due diligence protocols. Clean, logical problems with clean, logical solutions.
Not like the mess of being married to someone who thought you were too cold to care. Who didn't know that you'd started this whole arrangement because you'd been half in love with him since you were twenty-three. Who had no idea that two years of being touched without being known had slowly frozen something vital inside you.
Better that he didn't know.
Better that we keep it professional.
I turned back to my laptop, fingers moving across the keyboard. Outside, the night pressed against the windows. Inside, the house felt vast and silent.
---
I woke up in the lake house the next morning to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my body heavy, like something invisible was pinning me down. Yesterday's phone call with my mother, the news of Marcus's arrest, last night's meeting about the Reynolds Industries project—everything played on repeat in my mind, fracturing even my sleep.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I turned my head and saw Emily's message on the screen:
Emily: [Saw the news. You okay?]
I stared at those words, my finger hovering above the screen. Was I okay? I didn't know. I'd just cut ties with my mother, put her number on Do Not Disturb, and learned last night I'd be handling Rowan's European expansion case.
But my hands were steady, my voice level, my exterior flawless.
So maybe I was fine. Maybe I'd always been fine, just good at pretending.
I sat up, bare feet touching the cold hardwood, and walked into the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looked perfect—no puffy eyes, no haggard features, just the same controlled composure as always.
I turned on the faucet. The moment cold water hit my face, my phone rang. Emily.
I dried my face and answered.
"Are you really okay?" Her voice skipped the pleasantries, carrying that penetrating quality of a professional therapist. "Don't tell me 'I'm fine.' I can hear through that."
I leaned against the sink, closing my eyes. "My father got arrested. The company's stock crashed. My mother called demanding I fix everything, demanding I get Rowan to help."
"And you agreed?"
"I hung up on her."
Silence for a few seconds, then Emily let out a low whistle. "Jesus, Lena. You finally—"
"Put her on Do Not Disturb," I added, my voice as calm as discussing the weather. "Emily. It took me thirty years to learn how to say no."
"My condolences." Her tone carried dark humor. "Though that's usually for funerals, I think it fits considering you just buried your relationship with your mother. What about Rowan? How's that going?"
I opened my eyes, looking at my reflection. "Getting divorced soon."
"What?" Emily's voice pitched up. "Wait, you mean—"
"Contract expires in three weeks." My tone remained clinical, like citing legal terms. "I'm not renewing. Already had the lawyers draft the termination documents."
I heard Emily take a deep breath, then pause. I could picture her expression now—shocked, worried, but maybe also a little relieved.
"Good." She finally said, her voice firm. "Good. You shouldn't keep wasting time on that cold bastard. How many chances did he get? Two years, Lena. You gave him two whole years. What did he do? Brought his ex back, gave her roses—"
"Emily." I cut her off.
"Sorry." She paused. "But you know I'm right. That man's got someone else in his heart. Textbook emotional avoidance. You should've left ages ago."
I walked back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside the window, the lake shimmered, beautiful and unreal. Like this entire house, like these two years of marriage—perfect surface, hollow core.
"So what's your plan?" Emily's voice softened. "Work? Move? Or—"
"Work." I kept it brief. "Focus on work. Maybe switch cities, switch firms. Start over."
"Mm-hmm." Emily drew out the sound, then suddenly shifted tone with that casual teasing quality. "What about Daniel Whitmore?"
I froze. "What?"
"Daniel Whitmore. The Whitmore heir, your classmate. Pretty good-looking too." Her voice carried obvious amusement. "Don't play dumb. I know he confessed to you at that party last year. You turned him down because you were still in the contract marriage, but now—"