Chapter 164
Lena's POV
The security team had been a constant presence for two weeks now—shadows in the hallway, murmurs through the door, the faint click of equipment being checked at intervals I'd learned to predict. I'd grown used to it the way one grows used to tinnitus: an irritation that fades into background noise until something brings it sharply back into focus.
This morning, that something was the realization that Marcus Grant was no longer a free man.
I found Rowan in the living room, his laptop open on the coffee table, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling beside it. He looked up when I entered, his expression unreadable.
"I think we can scale back the security," I said without preamble. "Marcus is in custody. The immediate threat is gone."
He closed the laptop with a soft click. "The immediate threat, yes. But the case isn't closed. We still need to confirm there are no loose ends—no one else on his payroll who might decide to finish what he started."
I crossed my arms. "You're being paranoid."
"I'm being thorough." His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it. "There's a difference."
I could have argued. Should have, probably. But the truth was, I didn't have the energy for it. The trial had drained me in ways I hadn't anticipated, and the thought of dismantling the one thing that made me feel marginally safe—even if I resented its presence—left me hollow.
"Fine," I said. "Keep them for now."
He studied me for a moment, as if trying to determine whether I meant it or was simply too tired to fight. Then he nodded.
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.
"Lena."
I glanced back. He was standing now, hands in his pockets, his gaze steady on mine.
"Do you hate me?" he asked. "For the way things were between us during the marriage?"
The question landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the careful composure I'd been maintaining. I forced myself to hold his gaze, to keep my voice level.
"It's in the past, Rowan. There's nothing to hate."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
He took a step closer. "I want us to start over."
The words hit me harder than I expected. I blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. "What?"
"You heard me."
I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping before I could stop it. "Rowan, I've moved on. I let it go. I'm not going back."
"You haven't let it go," he said quietly. "And neither have I."
The certainty in his voice made my chest tighten. I wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, but the words caught in my throat. Because he wasn't wrong. Not entirely.
"This conversation is over," I said, turning toward the hallway.
But he was faster. His hand caught my wrist—not hard, just firm enough to stop me—and before I could react, he'd turned me around and backed me against the wall.
My breath hitched. His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. My pulse hammered in my ears, and I hated that he could feel it, that the rapid beat beneath his fingertips betrayed everything I was trying to hide.
"You're still affected by me," he murmured, his voice low and infuriatingly smug. "Interesting."
I shoved at his chest. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" He didn't move, didn't release me. "Your heart rate says otherwise."
"Get off me, Rowan."
"Answer the question first."
"What question?"
"Do you still feel something for me?"
The air between us crackled with tension. I wanted to lie, to tell him he was nothing to me now, that whatever I'd felt had burned out long ago. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, I glared at him, my jaw tight, my silence louder than any denial.
A slow smile curved his lips. "That's what I thought."
"You're insufferable," I bit out.
"And you're a terrible liar." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I'll make you admit it eventually, my Mrs. Reynolds."
The possessive edge in his voice sent a shiver down my spine—one I couldn't quite suppress. He noticed, of course. His smile widened.
I shoved him again, harder this time, and he let me go. I didn't wait for him to say anything else. I turned and walked straight to my study, shutting the door behind me with more force than necessary.
Inside, I pressed my back against the door and closed my eyes, willing my heartbeat to slow. My wrist still tingled where his fingers had been, and I hated how easily he could unravel me with a few words and a look.
Focus, I told myself. Work. You need to work.
I crossed to my desk and opened my laptop, pulling up the files I'd been reviewing earlier. The case against Marcus was solid, but there were still loose ends—details that didn't quite add up. One of them was Maria.
The woman in the photograph, the one who'd met Marcus in that café, had haunted me since I first saw her face. I'd handed the image over to the police weeks ago, and they'd promised to investigate. Now, finally, I had an update.
I dialed the lead detective.
"Ms. Grant," he answered on the second ring. "I was just about to call you."
"You found something?"
"More than we expected." There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling. "Maria Bergmann—real name Susan Walsh—has ties to an international trafficking network. Specifically, she was involved in the Katya Ivanova case."
My stomach dropped. "Katya. The woman Diana was trying to help several years ago."
"The same. Katya was held captive by a criminal syndicate and forced into organ trafficking. Maria was the buyer—the one who needed the transplant."
I gripped the edge of my desk. "Why would she do that?"