Chapter 131
Rowan's POV
I closed my laptop with more force than necessary, the sharp click echoing through the temporary office setup in Lena's guest room. Eight hours of coordinating asset freezes across three jurisdictions, and my eyes were burning. Jack had just sent the latest update on Marcus's location—still in Zurich, still protected by Silverpine's network of expensive lawyers and bought officials.
Still untouchable.
For now.
I stood, rolling tension from my shoulders, and checked the time. Nearly seven PM. Lena had been in her study since lunch, barely eating the sandwich Martha brought her. Dr. Taylor's reminder surfaced: She needs routine. Normalcy. Don't let her disappear into work.
The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd spent two years watching her disappear into perfect, accommodating silence, and never once thought to pull her back.
I headed toward the kitchen. Martha was arranging vegetables with practiced efficiency, her gray hair pulled back in its usual neat bun.
"Mr. Reynolds." She nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes."
"Actually..." I leaned against the counter, trying for casual. "I wanted to ask—what does Lena usually like to eat?"
Martha's hands stilled on the cutting board. Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Well, she's never been particular about preferences, sir. Very easy to please."
That phrase made my jaw tighten. Easy to please. Because she'd learned not to ask for what she wanted.
"But there must be something," I pressed. "Dishes she requests more often?"
Martha considered, then brightened. "Oh, the duck breast with cherry sauce. She used to ask for it quite regularly—at least twice a week at the Lake Estate."
My stomach dropped.
That was my favorite. The dish I'd demolished every time it appeared, barely leaving Lena more than a polite taste. I could see it now—her delicate fork pushing food around her plate while I helped myself to seconds, oblivious.
"When was the last time she asked for it?" The question came out rougher than intended.
"I..." Martha frowned, thinking. "Not since you moved here, actually. I assumed she'd tired of it."
Christ.
"That's not Lena's favorite," I said quietly. "It's mine."
Martha's expression shifted from confusion to understanding to something uncomfortably close to pity. "Oh. I see."
She did see. Saw what I'd been too self-absorbed to notice for two years—Lena quietly arranging my preferences, erasing her own.
"What does she actually like?" I asked. "And please—exclude anything I've ever shown a preference for."
Martha set down her knife, giving me her full attention. The list she recited was damning: lemon butter fish, roasted vegetable tart, light herb soups, fig salad, fresh berries with yogurt. Delicate, bright flavors I'd never seen dominate our table because I'd filled it with heavy proteins and rich sauces.
"Make those tonight," I said. "All of them. Nothing I typically prefer."
"Of course, sir." Martha's voice was gentler than usual. "It's good that you're learning."
Learning. As if two years of marriage hadn't been enough time to ask the most basic questions.
---
Thirty minutes later, I found Lena still at her desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. Dark circles shadowed her eyes despite the concealer, and her coffee mug sat empty beside a half-eaten protein bar.
"Dinner's ready," I said from the doorway.
She glanced up, distracted. "I'll grab something later. Diana just sent—"
"Lena." I kept my voice even. "You've been working for six hours straight. Come eat."
Something in my tone made her pause. She saved her document, then stood with the careful movements of someone whose body had gone stiff from too long in one position.
In the dining room, her steps faltered.
The table was set simply, but every dish was light, colorful, nothing like our usual heavy dinners. Lemon butter fish, roasted vegetables arranged like art, golden-crusted tart still steaming, fig salad glistening with balsamic.
"This looks..." Lena's voice trailed off. Her fingers touched the back of her chair, and I saw it—that flicker of surprise she couldn't quite hide.
"Sit," I said quietly, pulling her chair out.
She did, but her eyes kept returning to the food with something I couldn't quite read. Pleasure? Confusion? Wariness?
We ate in silence for several minutes. I watched her take a bite of the fish, then another, her movements less mechanical than usual. Martha appeared with the berry yogurt, setting it down with a knowing look.
"These are all Mr. Reynolds' instructions," Martha said, completely unprompted. "He asked me specifically what you preferred."
Lena's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her gaze lifted to mine, questioning.
I set down my own utensils. "I should be ashamed that I know less about your tastes than my mother does." The admission tasted bitter. "I didn't even realize the duck was my preference, not yours."
"Rowan—"
"For two years, you accommodated everything." My laugh was self-deprecating. "Your reading light turned off when I wanted to sleep. Your books crammed into corners of the study. Your favorite foods off the table because I never thought to ask what you wanted."
Lena carefully placed her fork down. "You don't need to—"
"I do." I met her eyes. "Because I'm starting to understand how much you gave up, and how little I noticed."
The silence stretched. Lena's expression cycled through several emotions—surprise, something that might have been pain, then a careful neutrality.
Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle but firm. "I appreciate you noticing now, Rowan. I do." She paused, choosing her words. "But the past is the past. What we have now—this partnership, working together as equals—I think it's good. Natural."
She offered me a small smile, and somehow that made it worse.