Chapter 24
Lena's POV
I woke to darkness.
My head still felt heavy, but at least it wasn't the hammer-on-skull agony from this morning. I blinked, trying to focus—night had fallen, the curtains half-drawn, letting in a sliver of streetlight.
There was another light source in the room.
The cold blue glow of a laptop screen.
I turned my head and froze.
Rowan was asleep in the chair.
His suit jacket draped over the chair back, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, two buttons undone at the collar. His head tilted slightly to one side, breathing even. The laptop still glowed, paused on some contract document.
What was he doing here?
I sat up slowly, the movement bringing a wave of dizziness. When my vision steadied, I looked down at myself—pajamas. Clean cotton pajamas, soft and comfortable. Not the blouse and slacks I'd worn this morning.
I reached up, fingers finding the strap beneath.
Even my bra had been changed.
My heart kicked into a faster rhythm.
I looked sharply at Rowan, an absurd thought flashing through my mind—he wouldn't have taken advantage while I was sick—
But there was no soreness. No familiar ache, no telltale signs of sex.
I exhaled slowly, feeling foolish for even thinking it.
Though we'd maintained a regular sex life since our wedding night. Though he was an unrepentant asshole when it came to emotions—bringing his ex on business trips, flaunting their intimacy at social events—I had to admit, I enjoyed those moments in bed. He knew exactly where to touch me, how to take me apart and put me back together. So for two years, our physical relationship had never faltered.
But now was different.
If we were going to separate, I didn't want any more entanglements. Especially physical ones. That kind of intimacy would only complicate things, make it harder to walk away.
My throat felt like sandpaper. I pushed back the covers, feet touching the floor. The chair scraped.
"Lena?"
Rowan was awake. He rubbed his eyes, standing and moving toward me. His movements carried the sluggishness of interrupted sleep, but his gaze sharpened quickly.
"How are you feeling?" He stopped at the bedside, leaning down to study my face. "Still dizzy? What do you need?"
The gentleness in his voice caught me off guard.
He rarely used that tone with me. At least not in recent months. Our conversations had become polite, distant, or laced with sarcasm.
"It's fine," I steadied my voice, avoiding his eyes. "I'll just get some water."
"Hold on."
He didn't move aside. Instead, he stepped closer, arms coming around me—not tight, but enough to keep me from standing.
Then he leaned in, voice dropping low, tinged with amusement: "I helped you change earlier. Getting you water is hardly a burden. Though..."
He paused.
"Aren't you going to say thank you?"
Heat flooded my cheeks.
I could feel his breath against my ear, smell the faint trace of cigars and woody cologne. My heart refused to cooperate, beating faster despite my best efforts.
"Thank you." The words came out through clenched teeth.
He laughed softly, then bent and lifted me—just picked me up like it was nothing.
"What are you—"
"Don't move."
He set me back on the bed, surprisingly gentle. Before I could protest, he'd already turned toward the bathroom.
I stared at his back, emotions tangling in my chest.
His shirt was wrinkled from sleep, the fabric pulling across his shoulders. His hands were steady as he filled a glass, movements efficient and natural.
I looked away, breathing deep.
I couldn't do this.
Couldn't let his occasional tenderness shake my resolve. I'd spent two years reading too much into every small gesture, searching for warmth that didn't exist beneath his cold exterior.
Enough.
He handed me the glass. I drank slowly—the water was perfect temperature, not too hot or cold. When I finished, I set it on the nightstand.
"You should go rest," I said. "It's late."
His eyebrow lifted. "Kicking me out already?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then I'll order dinner sent up," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "You haven't eaten all day. I'll leave after you eat."
I opened my mouth to say I wasn't hungry, but my stomach chose that moment to growl audibly.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Fine," I conceded.
---
When dinner arrived, it was the hotel's comfort menu—chicken noodle soup, grilled chicken breast, steamed vegetables, and a side of dinner rolls. The aroma filled the room, and I realized I was actually starving.
Rowan arranged the plates on the nightstand, then pulled a chair close to the bed.
"You don't need to feed me," I said. "I can manage."
"I know."
He handed me the soup, then picked up his own fork for the chicken.
We ate in silence. Just the quiet clink of silverware, the occasional car passing outside the window.
Halfway through, Rowan spoke: "Why do you want the divorce?"
My hand stilled.
I set down my spoon, staring at the soup. "I don't want to continue this kind of marriage."
"Have I been bad to you?" His voice was flat, businesslike—like discussing contract terms.
I was quiet for several seconds.
How should I answer that?
Had he been bad to me? Within the scope of our contract, he'd been a perfect husband. He never restricted my work, never questioned my private accounts, always maintained my dignity at public events.
But so what?
Those were just contractual obligations. His duties as an adequate spouse, same as mine—attending social functions, maintaining the Grant family image. But beyond that, nothing more. No real emotional connection. He didn't know my preferences, didn't care about my moods, never shared his own thoughts.
"Or is it..." He paused, voice dropping lower. "The sex? Are you unsatisfied?"
My face burned.
"No." My gaze skittered away, fixing on the soup bowl. My voice came out barely above a whisper: "It's just... this marriage without feeling is too empty."
The air went still.
I could feel his eyes on me, intense and searching. But I couldn't look up.
"Empty," he repeated, something unreadable in his tone. "So you want a marriage with feelings?"
"I want something real," I said, finally meeting his gaze. "Not built on contracts and transactions."
"Real." He laughed quietly, without humor. "Lena, how many marriages in the world do you think are real?"
"At least not like ours."
He didn't answer. Just stared at me for a long moment, until I almost had to look away again.
Then he stood and began clearing the plates.
"Have you had enough?"
"Yes."
"Then get some rest." He stacked the dishes on the tray, turning toward the door.
"Rowan."
He stopped, looking back.
"Thank you for taking care of me today." I kept my voice even, controlled. "But our decision won't change."
His expression didn't shift, but something dimmed in his eyes.
"I know."
Then he opened the door and left.
The soft click of it closing echoed in the quiet room.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling. Drew a long breath.
My chest felt tight—whether from the fever or something else, I couldn't tell.
Didn't matter.
I would start over. Build a life without him.
Even if right now, thinking about it made my heart ache.
I closed my eyes and waited for sleep.