Chapter 168
Lena's POV
I woke to sunlight streaming through the gap in my curtains, the kind of bright, clean light that suggested it was later than I usually slept. Blinking groggily, I reached for my phone on the nightstand and checked the time: 7:32 AM.
I sat up slowly, running a hand through my tangled hair, and frowned at the bedroom door. It was ajar—just a few inches, enough to let in the faint sounds of Martha moving around in the kitchen. But I distinctly remembered closing it last night before I went to bed.
Had Martha come in to check on me? That seemed unlikely. She was meticulous about respecting my privacy.
I shook my head, dismissing the thought as I swung my legs out of bed. Probably just failed to latch properly.
In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and studied my reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under my eyes had faded slightly, and my complexion looked less wan than it had in recent weeks. I actually felt... rested. For the first time in months, I'd slept deeply, without nightmares or the restless half-waking that usually plagued me.
A strange, fleeting memory surfaced as I dried my face—the sensation of fingertips brushing my temple, gentle and reverent, followed by a whispered voice too low to make out the words. But the memory was hazy, dreamlike, and I'd been so exhausted last night that I couldn't trust it.
Probably just your subconscious trying to comfort you, I told myself firmly, pulling my hair back into a loose ponytail.
By the time I emerged from my bedroom, fully dressed, the apartment felt cavernous and empty. Rowan's door stood open, the guest room beyond it pristine and unoccupied. No sounds came from his study or the living room.
He was already gone.
I found his note on the dining table, propped against the edge of a covered dish. Martha had left breakfast warming in the insulated container, and beside it sat a small vase with a single white rose—her way of brightening my mornings, I supposed.
I picked up the note, recognizing Rowan's precise, angular handwriting immediately.
Breakfast is in the warmer. Reynolds Industries meeting this morning—might run late. Martha prepared lunch; it's in the fridge.
Short. Practical. Exactly the kind of message one would leave for a housemate or a colleague.
I set the note down, surprised by the hollowness that opened up in my chest. This should have been a relief. After yesterday's confrontation in the hallway—after he'd crowded me against the wall and forced me to acknowledge the heat that still simmered between us—I should have been grateful for the distance.
Instead, I felt... abandoned. Again.
Stop it, I ordered myself sharply. You wanted space. You got space. This is exactly what you asked for.
"Ms. Grant?"
I turned to find Martha emerging from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her expression was warm, concerned in that quiet, observant way of hers.
"Good morning, Martha," I said, injecting brightness into my tone. "You didn't have to go to so much trouble."
"No trouble at all," she replied, moving to pour me a cup of coffee from the French press on the counter. "You look well-rested. I'm glad."
I accepted the coffee with a murmur of thanks, inhaling the rich aroma. "I slept better than I have in weeks, actually."
"I'm not surprised." Martha's gaze was knowing. "Mr. Reynolds asked me to prepare your favorites for breakfast this morning. He was very specific about the tea blend and the pastries."
My fingers tightened fractionally around the coffee cup. "That was thoughtful of him."
"He left quite early," Martha continued, her tone carefully neutral. "Around six, I believe. But he made sure everything was ready before he went."
I nodded, keeping my expression pleasant and unrevealing. "He's always very considerate."
Martha looked like she wanted to say more—her lips parted slightly, and her eyes searched my face with something close to sympathy. But whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself.
"Well," she said after a moment, "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything. And there's soup for Ms. Clarke in the slow cooker. I thought you might want to bring it to her later."
"Thank you, Martha. That's very kind."
She nodded and retreated, leaving me alone with my coffee and the note.
He cares about you, Martha had said, not in so many words, but the implication was clear.
Maybe he did. In his own obligatory way.
But caring wasn't the same as wanting. And it certainly wasn't the same as loving.
I drained my coffee in three long swallows, set the cup down with more force than necessary, and headed for my study. I had work to do, plans to finalize, and no time to waste on analyzing Rowan's motivations.
Today, I was going to find out what happened to Maria's daughter. And I was going to do it without anyone's permission or protection.
---
At eight o'clock sharp, I dialed Emily's number. She picked up on the second ring, her voice alert despite the early hour.
"I'm ready," I said without preamble. "Are you?"
"Packed and caffeinated," Emily confirmed. "But Lena, are you sure you don't want to tell Rowan where you're going?"
I leaned back in my desk chair, staring at the printed photo of Emma Walsh that lay atop my neatly organized files. "It's just a school visit, Emily. We're going to ask a few questions, maybe talk to the administration. It's not a covert operation."
"It's also not exactly safe," Emily countered. "If Maria's involved in something bigger—"
"Which is exactly why we need to go," I interrupted. "Diana said Katya heard a child's voice. If that child was Emma, then we need to know what happened to her."
Emily sighed, the sound crackling slightly over the line. "Fine. But if this turns into something dangerous, I'm calling Rowan myself."
"It won't," I said with more confidence than I felt. "We'll be in and out in a few hours. I'll be home before he even knows I'm gone."
"Famous last words," Emily muttered. "I'll be at your building at nine. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
I ended the call and turned my attention back to the files spread across my desk. Emma Walsh's school photo stared up at me—a small, dark-haired girl with her mother's delicate features and a shy, uncertain smile. According to the records Alexander had pulled, she'd been enrolled at Maplewood Preparatory School for three years before abruptly withdrawing last spring. No forwarding address. No explanation.
And now her mother was missing, tied up in an international trafficking network that had already cost Katya her kidney and nearly her life.
I gathered the documents, my recording pen, and a fresh notebook, sliding them all into my leather messenger bag. Then I pulled up the directions to Maplewood on my phone—a three-hour drive northwest, into the flat farmland of the Midwest.
Plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to prepare.
And plenty of time to ignore the small, traitorous part of me that wished Rowan were coming along.