Chapter 140
Lena's POV
The dream started the way they always did lately—with the familiar hallway of the Grant house.
But this time, I wasn't running.
I was standing at the end of the corridor, looking at a closed door. My father's study. Even in sleep, my chest tightened with the old familiar dread.
Then I heard it.
Crying.
Soft, muffled sobs coming from behind the door.
My hand reached for the knob before I could think. The door swung open silently.
Inside, huddled in the corner between the desk and the wall, was a little girl.
She couldn't have been more than seven. Thin arms wrapped around her knees. Dark hair falling forward to hide her face. Wearing a dress I remembered—pale blue with white trim, the one I'd loved until I'd bled on it.
Me.
She looked up as I stepped inside. Her eyes were huge and dark and terrified.
"It's okay," I whispered.
I crossed the room slowly, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. Knelt down in front of her.
Up close, I could see the bruises. The ones I'd learned to hide. The ones everyone had chosen not to see.
My throat closed.
"It's okay," I said again. "I'm here now."
She stared at me with those wide, frightened eyes. "He said—he said it was my fault. That I shouldn't have—"
"No." My voice came out fierce. "No, sweetheart. None of this is your fault. Do you hear me? None of it."
She shook her head, not believing me. Still thinking—the way I'd thought for so many years—that if she could just be quieter, smaller, better, maybe it would stop.
I reached for her then. Pulled her into my arms.
She was so small. Had I really been that small?
"Listen to me," I whispered into her hair. "I know you're scared. I know you think you have to hide and stay quiet and make yourself invisible. But you don't."
"I do," she whispered back. "If I don't, he'll—"
"I know what he does." My arms tightened around her. "And I'm so, so sorry you have to go through this. But I promise you—I promise—it won't always be like this."
She pulled back enough to look at me. Her face was wet with tears.
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm you," I said simply. "Twenty years from now. And I'm still here. I survived. We survived."
"But it hurts," she whispered. "And no one believes me. And Mama just—she just looks away."
The words landed like a knife between my ribs.
"I know." My own eyes burned. "I know they failed you. Failed us. And I can't change that. But I can promise you something."
I cupped her small face in my hands, the way no one had ever done for me.
"You won't have to hide forever. One day, you're going to be strong enough to fight back. Strong enough to tell the truth, even when it's terrifying. And when that day comes—" My voice cracked. "—I'll be right there with you. I'll protect you the way no one else did."
"You promise?"
"I promise." I pulled her close again. "No more hiding in corners. No more making yourself small. We're going to stand up. We're going to speak. And anyone who tries to hurt us again will have to go through both of us."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice so small I almost didn't hear it:
"I'm scared."
"Me too," I admitted. "But we're going to do it anyway."
I felt her nod against my shoulder.
"Okay," she whispered.
I held her until the dream began to fade, the study dissolving into shadows and soft morning light.
---
Rowan's POV
I woke at 6 AM out of habit, even though I'd barely slept.
The apartment was silent. Too silent.
I padded down the hallway in bare feet, meaning to check that the security system was still armed. But I found myself stopping outside Lena's door instead.
No sound from inside.
After last night—after watching her work herself to exhaustion, eyes red-rimmed and hands shaking—part of me needed to confirm she was actually resting.
I knocked softly. "Lena?"
No answer.
I waited another beat, then eased the door open just enough to look inside.
She was asleep, still fully dressed, lying on top of the comforter. Her laptop sat open on the nightstand, screen dark but power light still glowing.
Relief loosened something in my chest.
I should leave. Let her rest. God knew she needed it.
But as I started to back out, my gaze snagged on the laptop screen.
It had gone to sleep, but the document was still open. I could see the title in the preview:
Public Statement - Draft 1
My hand froze on the doorknob.
I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't.
But I was already moving toward the nightstand, already reaching for the touchpad to wake the screen.
The document filled the display.
"My name is Lena Grant, and I am a survivor of childhood abuse."
The words hit like a physical blow.
I kept reading. Couldn't stop myself.
She'd written it all. The systematic abuse. The photographic evidence Marcus had kept. Her decision to disclose proactively rather than allow those images to be weaponized against her.
Clinical. Factual. Devastating.
I had to brace one hand against the nightstand to steady myself.
She's planning to release this.
Publicly. To the press, to clients, to everyone who'd ever wondered about the perfect, controlled Lena Grant.
My first instinct was immediate and visceral: No. Absolutely not.
I could stop this. One call to my legal team. One conversation with the partners at her firm. I could protect her from this—
I stopped myself mid-thought.
Protect her?
Or control her?
I looked at Lena's sleeping form. Even in sleep, she looked exhausted. Shadows under her eyes. Tension in her shoulders.
She'd spent hours writing this. Choosing this.
Not because she wanted to expose her trauma to the world. But because she was taking back the only power Marcus had left over her—the power of the secret.
"You won't have to hide forever," someone had said once. "One day, you're going to be strong enough to fight back."
Had she said that to herself? Or had someone—finally—said it to her?