Chapter 160
Rowan's POV
The café Emily chose was tucked into a quiet side street downtown, the kind of place where conversations could happen without being overheard. I arrived fifteen minutes early, ordered two coffees and claimed a corner table with a clear view of the entrance.
My phone buzzed. Jack, asking about the Marcus case timeline. I sent back a brief response and pocketed the device. Whatever was happening with the prosecution could wait. This couldn't.
Emily appeared exactly on time, her expression already skeptical as she spotted me. She crossed the café with the deliberate stride of someone preparing for an interrogation, slid into the seat across from me, and picked up the coffee without thanks.
"So," she said, taking a sip and setting the cup down with precision. "You want to talk about Lena."
"I want to understand her," I corrected. "The real her."
Emily's laugh was short and humorless. "The real her? You were married to her for two years, Rowan. You lived in the same house. Slept in the same bed. And you're telling me you never bothered to figure out who she actually was?"
The accusation landed exactly as intended. I kept my voice level. "I know I failed her. I treated the marriage like a contract instead of—" I stopped, searching for the right words. "Instead of what it could have been. What it should have been."
"And now?" Emily leaned back, arms crossed. "Now that she's not legally obligated to put up with you anymore, you've suddenly developed an interest?"
"It's not sudden." The words came out sharper than I meant them to. I forced myself to slow down, to meet her eyes directly. "I've been an idiot. I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But I'm trying to do better. I'm trying to understand what I was too blind to see before."
Emily studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed, some of the hostility draining from her posture. "You really hurt her, you know. She'd never admit it, but I saw it. Every time you treated her like a convenient arrangement instead of a person."
The guilt that had been sitting in my chest for weeks tightened another notch. "I know."
"Do you?" Emily picked up her coffee again, wrapping both hands around the cup. "Do you know that she used to wait up for you? That she'd make sure your favorite whiskey was stocked, that she'd quietly adapt to every one of your habits? Small things. Things you probably never even noticed."
I hadn't noticed. Of course I hadn't.
"She stopped after a while," Emily continued, her voice softer now. "Around the one-year mark, I think. She realized you weren't going to see her no matter what she did."
My throat felt tight. "Why did she agree to the marriage in the first place? If she knew I was—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
Emily's smile was sad. "Because she's always been a little bit in love with you, you idiot."
The café noise—the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of other conversations—seemed to fade into white noise. I stared at Emily, certain I'd misheard.
"What?"
"Lena." Emily set her cup down with a soft clink. "She had feelings for you long before you ever proposed that contract. Back in law school, actually. Maybe even before that."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. "That's not—she never—"
"Of course she never said anything." Emily's tone sharpened again. "You were too busy mooning over Nora Kane to notice anyone else. Lena watched you pine after that woman for years, and she never said a word. Just stayed in the background, being brilliant and competent and utterly invisible to you."
I thought of Lena in law school—quiet, always prepared, the one who'd lent me her notes when I'd overslept before Professor Hartford's exam. The one who'd somehow known exactly which case citations I needed for my moot court argument. I'd thanked her, vaguely, the way you thank someone for holding a door open.
"She helped me with the Whitmore case," I said slowly, the memory surfacing. "My first big client. Someone sent an anonymous analysis that saved the entire deal."
Emily's expression confirmed what I was already beginning to understand.
"That was her," I said. "Wasn't it."
"She spent three days on that research." Emily's voice was flat. "Stayed up until two, three in the morning, cross-referencing precedents and drafting arguments. Never put her name on it. Never asked for credit. Just wanted you to succeed."
The weight of it was crushing. "Why would she—"
"Because she cared about you, Rowan. Because watching you struggle was painful for her. Because she's the kind of person who helps people she loves, even when they don't love her back."
"She also yearns to be loved," Emily continued, "but she doesn't know how to let people love her. That's what her toxic family did to her—taught her that all she deserves is to be the one giving."
I couldn't speak. The café felt too small, the air too thin.
Emily leaned forward, her eyes hard. "She even kept a journal about it. Did you know that? Back in law school. She got drunk one night—one of the few times I ever saw her let her guard down—and told me she'd been writing down all these little moments. Every time you smiled at her. Every time you asked for her help. Every time she convinced herself that maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see her as more than a study partner."
A journal. Lena had kept a journal about me. About us. About feelings I'd never known existed.
"Where—" I started, then stopped. It didn't matter where. I had no right to ask.