Chapter 132
Rowan's POV
"Maybe being friends is enough," Lena finished softly. "Maybe that's what works best for us."
Friends.
The word landed like a punch to the sternum. Not angry, not bitter—just... accepting. As if the two years of marriage, the nights we'd spent tangled in each other, the quiet moments I'd squandered, could all be neatly boxed and labeled "past."
"Friends," I repeated, keeping my voice level. "Right."
I picked up my fork again, though the food had lost all taste. Lena returned to eating, and her posture had relaxed—genuinely relaxed, as if naming our new boundaries had given her permission to breathe easier.
That hurt more than anger would have.
We finished the meal making careful small talk about the Silverpine case. She thanked Martha for dinner, complimented every dish, and excused herself early to return to work.
I stayed at the table, staring at her half-finished plate, listening to her study door click shut.
Friends.
She'd said it so easily, with such honest relief.
And I had no right to ask for more.
---
Later that night
I lay in the guest room bed, staring at the ceiling, her words circling like vultures.
Maybe being friends is enough.
The problem was, it wasn't enough. Not for me. Not anymore.
And the worst part? She wasn't lying or protecting herself with that statement. She meant it. I could see it in the way her shoulders had loosened, the way she'd smiled—really smiled—when I'd agreed.
She'd made peace with us being nothing more than cordial ex-spouses.
While I was lying here cataloging every small way I'd failed her.
The duck wasn't the only thing. God, it was barely the beginning.
I rolled onto my side, memories flooding in unwanted:
Her birthday last year—I'd forgotten entirely until Isabella sent me a pointed text at 9 PM. Jack had ordered flowers and a generic jewelry box that arrived the next day. Lena had thanked me with perfect politeness, and I'd actually felt pleased with myself for "remembering."
The museum exhibition she'd mentioned once. "The MoMA has an Impressionist collection visiting this weekend." I'd said I was busy with the Hartwell acquisition. Weeks later, I'd seen it marked on her calendar: MOMA, 2pm, Saturday. She'd gone alone. Never mentioned it again.
Our first anniversary. She'd worn a dark blue dress—my favorite color, I realized now—and waited in the living room while I finished reviewing contracts. When I finally looked up, she'd been standing there for God knows how long. I'd said, "You look nice," and gone back to work. She'd changed clothes ten minutes later.
I didn't even know what she was allergic to.
Isabella had mentioned it once—something about musk-scented candles at the Oak Club making Lena leave events early. I'd been married to her for two years and never knew she had allergies.
Every memory was another small cut.
She'd been trying to build something real. Choosing my favorite foods, wearing colors I liked, accommodating my schedule, my preferences, my entire goddamn life.
And I'd treated her like a well-trained assistant.
I sat up, running both hands through my hair.
She said she'd made peace with it. Said "friends" with such genuine calm.
But had she? Really?
Or was she just finally protecting herself the way I should have protected her all along?
I stood, pacing to the window. The city sprawled below, lights glittering like scattered diamonds.
I need to know, I thought. I need to know if she's really at peace, or if she's just... armor.
Because if she truly felt nothing—if two years of marriage had burned out whatever she'd once felt—then I'd accept it. I'd bury whatever this growing ache was and be the friend she needed.
But if she wasn't as calm as she pretended...
I braced my hands against the window frame.
Then maybe—maybe—I still had a chance to do this right.
Even if I had no idea how.
---
Lena's POV
Morning light filtered through the curtains as I arranged files across the coffee table, transforming the living room into a makeshift war room. Sleep had been restless—images of Rowan's dinner, his careful attention to my preferences, kept surfacing alongside the memory of my own deflection. Maybe being friends is enough.
The lie had tasted bitter even as I'd said it.
Martha arrived early, setting up coffee and pastries without comment on the controlled chaos of documents and legal pads. Diana was first through the door at ten sharp, followed by Jack, then Rachel. Each carried their piece of the puzzle we'd been assembling.
Rowan emerged from the guest room, showered and dressed for business, his expression neutral. Our eyes met briefly—his searching, mine carefully blank—before I turned to the whiteboard.
"Let's begin."
For the next two hours, I let the law ground me. This was familiar territory: evidence chains, jurisdictional questions, strategic timing. Diana walked us through the Silverpine-Katya connection—twenty-year patterns of document forgery, the same lawyers appearing across multiple cases of human trafficking.
"They're not just covering for criminals," Diana said, her voice tight. "They are the criminal enterprise."
Jack added Marcus's financial trail—every suspicious transaction routed through Silverpine's network of shell companies, including the payments to Clearwater Services for the break-in at my apartment. The timeline was damning: twenty years of coordinated criminal activity.
I contributed the final piece: my grandfather's murder. Williams's deathbed testimony, the falsified death certificate, Marcus's wire transfer for "expedited cremation." The room fell silent as I laid out how Marcus had poisoned a seventy-two-year-old man to secure his inheritance.
Rachel compiled it all into a single timeline projected on the wall. Twenty years. Multiple countries. Countless victims.
"RICO," I said quietly. "We build this as a Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations case. Silverpine isn't a law firm—it's a continuing criminal enterprise."
Diana nodded, already making notes. "Multi-jurisdictional. We hit them from every angle—Interpol red notice for Marcus, asset freezes through Swiss financial regulators, judicial cooperation requests to the EU."
"We take down Silverpine first," I continued, my voice steady despite the coffee jitters and exhaustion. "Cut off Marcus's protection, freeze his funds, eliminate his escape routes. Then we come for him."
We divided responsibilities. Diana would draft the RICO complaint and coordinate with international authorities. Jack would manage witness protection and asset tracking. Rachel would compile evidence packages for each jurisdiction.
I would write the report to Interpol myself.
By noon, the team dispersed with clear assignments. Diana squeezed my shoulder on her way out. "We're going to destroy them."
"Yes," I said simply. "We are."
---
The apartment felt too quiet after everyone left. I returned to my study, pulled up the evidence files, and began typing. Grandfather's murder. My childhood. Katya's trafficking. Catherine Walsh's break-in. The systematic pattern of Silverpine's criminal enterprise.
Hours blurred together. The words flowed with mechanical precision, each fact documented, each connection proven. This was what I knew how to do—reduce trauma to evidence, transform pain into strategy.
I didn't notice the sun setting.
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