Chapter 29
Lena's POV
The plane touched down as I stared out the window at Silverton's lights.
Eight PM. The city sprawled beneath us, high-rises cutting jagged silhouettes against the darkening sky. Hartwell was done—three executives with solid evidence, acquisition on hold, everything cleanly handed off to the SEC. Textbook resolution.
I felt nothing.
"Lena, there's a call scheduled for nine AM tomorrow." Rachel's voice came from beside me. "Madison wants a full briefing."
"Fine." I answered mechanically, not turning my head.
In my peripheral vision, two seats ahead, Rowan and Nora sat side by side. They weren't speaking, but the proximity registered. Nora's arm rested on the armrest, fingertips nearly brushing his suit sleeve.
I looked away.
Distance is necessary.
Since that night he'd shown up drunk and kissed me, we'd maintained strictly professional communication. Calm, efficient, polite. Exactly what we should have been all along.
The pressure in my chest tightened. I breathed in slowly, told myself it was normal—long flight, sleep deprivation. Nothing more.
---
The arrivals hall buzzed with movement.
Lucas Kane stood out in the crowd—blond hair, light gray coat. When he spotted Nora, his face lit up. He crossed to her in long strides and pulled her into a hug.
"Rough week, little sister?" He took her suitcase. "Mom sent me to pick you up. Said you must be exhausted."
Nora's smile curved her eyes. "Not too bad. All part of the job."
She glanced back at us, waving. "Lena, Rowan, I'll head out. See you tomorrow!"
I nodded.
Rowan watched them leave, then turned to me. "Need a ride?"
"No, thank you." Polite. Measured. "I'm fine."
He studied me for several seconds. Something flickered in those dark eyes—hesitation, maybe, or something else. But in the end he only nodded.
"Drive safe, then."
"You too."
He turned toward another section of the parking structure. Suit jacket sharp across his shoulders, quickly swallowed by the crowd.
I wheeled my suitcase toward the exit.
---
Cold autumn air hit me as I stepped outside, carrying the burnt-fuel smell of the tarmac. I pulled my coat tighter, dug through my bag for car keys—
And saw him.
Marcus Grant stood beside a black sedan, bent over luggage in the back seat. A young woman in a beige coat stood next to him, long hair loose over her shoulders. She held a toddler girl on her hip. A boy around five or six stood beside them, grinning to show newly grown teeth.
The mistress. And his illegitimate children.
My steps faltered.
Turn around. Now. Pretend you didn't see.
Marcus looked up.
---
"Well, well. My daughter." He straightened, voice edged with mockery. "Can't even say hello anymore?"
My fingers tightened on the suitcase handle.
"Marcus." Quiet.
"Call me Dad." He walked toward me, cold smile playing at his mouth. "What, you've made something of yourself and suddenly you don't recognize your own father?"
I didn't answer. Just looked at him—this biological parent, the Grant family bastard, the man who'd deceived my mother thirty years ago, siphoned Nexus Investment shares, kept a mistress on the side.
He looked more haggard than last time. Suit wrinkled, heavy circles under his eyes. Bail probably cost him.
"Got out on bail last week," he said, voice turning sharp. "You know that? You and your mother—not one phone call. Wouldn't even post bail."
"Bail is your own concern." Calm.
"I'm your father!" His volume spiked. "Raised you for over twenty years! And this is how you treat me when things go wrong?"
Raised me for over twenty years.
The words cut like a dull blade, slow and deliberate, reopening old wounds.
Grant House dinner table. Mother at the head, correcting my posture, my movements, my manners. Him across from me—
The sound of a hand hitting wood.
My fork clattering to the floor.
Pick it up. Don't make him angrier.
Birthdays? He never remembered. But he remembered other things. The report card with one A-minus among the A's. The piano recital where I stumbled over a chord. Small failures that required correction.
I learned to sit very still. To keep my hands in my lap where they couldn't knock things over. To breathe quietly.
To make myself small.
The time I was hospitalized with fever—Mother sat by my bed. He appeared once, stood in the doorway. Looked at me for a long moment with something cold in his eyes.
"Next time, be more careful."
I was eight. I'd fallen down the stairs.
Or that's what we told the doctor.
Raised me for over twenty years.
"You don't get to say that."
The words came out before I knew I'd speak them.
Marcus's face flushed red.
"What did you say?"
"You don't get to claim you raised me." My voice stayed quiet, but each word came clear. "You happened to provide DNA. That's all."
His hand lifted.
And my body remembered.
I watched it arc toward my face.
Should move. Should dodge.
But my body stayed frozen, brain blank.
Is this what blood does?
I hated him. Knew exactly what he'd done.
But I just stood there.
Waiting for impact.
---
The blow never landed.
A larger hand caught Marcus's wrist.
"Enough."
Rowan's voice came low, edged with warning.
I didn't know when he'd appeared. Now he stood between us, suit jacket slightly creased from the movement. He released Marcus's wrist but didn't step back.
Marcus rubbed his arm, eyes lingering on Rowan's face before his mouth twisted.
"Oh—" Marcus drew the sound out. "The contract husband. Does that even count?"
"More than you count as a father."
The air went still.
Rowan stepped forward, voice dropping colder. "Stay away from her. Next time I see you raise a hand, I won't stop at catching it."
Marcus's face mottled. He stared at Rowan for several seconds, then turned to me, mouth curling into something vicious.
"This isn't over." He said it quietly. "Remember that."
He got in the car. The black sedan started, pulled out of the lot, disappeared into the night.
I stood there, staring at where it had vanished.