Chapter 118
Lena's POV
I hadn't slept. Not really. Every time I'd closed my eyes, I'd seen that dress. The photograph. You never escaped. You never will.
At seven AM, I gave up pretending and messaged Diana: Working from home today. Available by phone or video if needed.
Her response came immediately: Take care of yourself. We've got everything covered.
I showered mechanically, dressed in comfortable clothes that felt like armor against the day ahead. When I emerged from my bedroom, I found Martha in the kitchen, staring wide-eyed at the new biometric lock on the front door.
"Ms. Grant." She turned to me, confusion plain on her face. "What... when did all this happen?"
I glanced at the visible security upgrades—the reinforced door frame, the additional cameras, the motion sensors. "Yesterday. There was a security breach."
"A breach?" Her hand went to her throat. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. We've upgraded the system." I kept my voice level, matter-of-fact. "And Mr. Reynolds will be staying in the guest room temporarily. For security purposes."
Martha's eyebrows rose, but she recovered quickly. "I see. Should I prepare breakfast for two, then?"
"Please."
She bustled toward the kitchen, and I heard Rowan's door open behind me. I didn't turn around.
"Good morning," he said quietly.
"Morning." I moved to the coffee maker, hyper-aware of his presence in my space. In the morning light, with him freshly showered and dressed for work, the surrealism of the situation hit me again. My ex-husband. In my apartment. Again.
We settled at the breakfast table in tense silence. Martha served eggs, toast, fresh fruit—far more elaborate than my usual coffee-and-go routine.
"This looks wonderful, Martha. Thank you." I forced a small smile.
She nodded, but her worried gaze flickered between Rowan and me before she retreated to give us privacy.
I picked up my fork, then set it down. "I'm not going to the office today."
Rowan looked up from his coffee. "Alright."
"So you can go to work. Your normal schedule." I kept my tone casual. "Martha will be here with me. That should be sufficient security for a weekday morning."
"No."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Martha's presence isn't adequate protection, Lena." He set his mug down with careful precision. "Not after yesterday."
"So what—you're just going to stay here indefinitely?" I heard the edge in my voice. "What about when I do go back to the office? Are you planning to accompany me there too?"
"That's different."
"How?"
"The office is a public space. Multiple entry points, security cameras, witnesses." He met my gaze steadily. "I'll have David assign an additional operative to shadow you there, but the risk profile is lower. Here, you're more vulnerable. Especially after Marcus demonstrated he can get someone inside your building."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him I didn't need him hovering over me like some personal bodyguard.
But the dress was still in my evidence bag. The photograph. The proof that Marcus could reach me whenever he wanted.
My throat tightened.
"Fine," I said quietly. "But I need to work. I can't just... sit here all day."
"I have work too." He gestured toward the hallway. "I've set up in the small room next to your study. I'll stay out of your way."
"That's your old workout room."
"It has a desk now. And decent Wi-Fi." A pause. "I'd appreciate it if you kept your study door open. Just in case you need anything."
In case Marcus sends another message. In case someone gets past the new locks.
The unspoken words hung between us.
"Alright," I said.
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By nine AM, I was in my study with my laptop open, determinedly working through emails. True to his word, Rowan had set up camp in the adjacent room—I could hear the low murmur of his voice on conference calls, the occasional click of keyboard keys.
It should have felt intrusive. Instead, there was something almost... steadying about it. Like having a guardrail on a cliff edge.
I forced myself to focus on a contract review for one of Diana's cases. Made notes. Drafted responses. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
But the U-drive sat in my desk drawer like a ticking bomb.
You can't keep avoiding it.
I pulled it out. Stared at it.
This was Marcus's phone. His secrets. His proof of whatever twisted games he'd been playing all these years.
My hand trembled as I inserted it into my laptop's USB port.
The files loaded slowly. Folders organized by year, starting from over two decades ago.
I clicked on the earliest folder first. Photographs appeared—some blurry, some sharp. Candid shots of women I didn't recognize. Hotel rooms. Restaurant tables.
Evidence of affairs. Nothing I hadn't suspected.
I kept scrolling, my jaw tight.
More women. More hotels. Then photographs from inside what looked like Marcus's study at the Grant house—I recognized the leather furniture, the bookshelves.
And then I saw myself.
My breath caught.
The photograph showed a small girl—maybe seven or eight years old—curled in the corner of a bedroom. Marcus's bedroom. Her face was turned slightly away from the camera, but I could see the bruises on her arms, the tear tracks on her cheeks.
She was barely covered by a thin scarf. Nothing else.
My hands went numb.
I clicked to the next image, and the next. More photographs of the same child. The same room. Injuries progressively worse. Clothing scattered on the floor nearby—women's clothing that definitely wasn't my mother's.
The room started to spin.
No. No, this can't be—
A sharp pain lanced through my skull. The laptop screen blurred, and suddenly I wasn't in my study anymore.
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