Chapter 30
Lena's POV
"Lena." Rowan's voice pulled me back. I turned to him.
"Thank you." Soft.
He didn't answer, just looked at me for several seconds, then spoke like an order. "Get in. I'm driving you."
"You don't need to—"
"Not a suggestion."
His tone left no room for argument. I opened my mouth, closed it, finally nodded.
The car interior was quiet.
City lights slid past the windows, frame by frame, like a silent film. I leaned back in the seat, eyes closed, trying to steady my breathing.
Rowan's hands gripped the wheel. The silence stretched.
Then: "Why didn't you move?"
I opened my eyes, looked at him. He kept his gaze on the road, jaw tight.
I didn't answer.
He glanced at me briefly, something sharp in his expression. "You just stood there."
My fingers curled in my lap.
I turned to the window. No response.
Because I don't know how to explain it.
In meetings, I could dissect complex contracts, dismantle opponents' arguments, present evidence that ended debates. But facing Marcus, every bit of that competence dissolved. I became that child again—sitting straight at the Grant House table, ignored by him, molded by her, told what a "proper daughter" should be.
The car stopped at a red light.
"You don't owe him anything." Rowan's voice came quieter now, but harder. "You know that."
I looked out at the intersection. Traffic signals reflected in puddles on the pavement.
"I know."
But my voice was so soft even I wasn't sure I believed it.
The light changed. The car moved forward. I closed my eyes and let exhaustion take over.
His grip on the wheel stayed tight all the way to Lakeview Estate.
---
When the car pulled into the Lakeview Estate driveway, I spotted a familiar silver-gray Mercedes parked by the entrance.
Mother's car.
My fingers paused on the seatbelt buckle.
"Vivian's here," Rowan said flatly.
"I see that."
His phone rang. Jack's name flashed across the screen—his assistant. Rowan frowned, glancing at the caller ID.
"You go ahead." He picked up the call. "I'll be in once I handle this."
I nodded and pushed the door open.
Gravel crunched under my shoes. The air smelled of lake water, damp and cool. The front door stood ajar, warm yellow light spilling through the gap.
I drew a slow breath and stepped inside.
---
Vivian Grant sat in the single armchair in the living room.
She wore a charcoal-gray suit, pearl earrings catching the light like chips of ice. Her spine was rod-straight—a blade in human form. On the coffee table sat an untouched tea set, the liquid long gone cold, thin fragments of leaves floating on the surface.
She looked up as I entered, gaze sweeping over my face—the disheveled hair, the wrinkled collar of my blouse.
"You're home," she said. Not a question.
"Mother." I set down my briefcase and hung my coat on the rack. "What brings you here?"
"Do I need a reason to visit my own daughter?" She lifted the teacup, took a sip, then frowned and set it down. "It's cold."
I moved toward the coffee table, reaching for the teapot. "Let me make you a fresh pot."
"Don't bother." She waved me off. "Sit."
Not an invitation. A command.
I settled onto the sofa across from her, hands folded neatly in my lap. Muscle memory from childhood—back straight, no slouching, no crossed legs. Don't give her anything to criticize.
"You know about Marcus," she said, locking eyes with me.
"I do."
"He made bail." Her voice turned cold. "This afternoon, Nexus Investment's stock dropped another fifteen percent."
My breath hitched.
"Why?"
"Because someone leaked that he's planning to liquidate his remaining shares." Vivian stood and walked to the window, her back to me. "The board panicked. Some of the older shareholders are already reaching out to buyers privately. If this continues, the company will be dismantled within a week."
My fingertips pressed into my knees.
"So what are you planning to—"
"What are you planning to do?" She turned around, cutting me off. "You're a Grant, Lena. At a time like this, you need to find a solution."
Find a solution.
"I can refer you to several lawyers who specialize in corporate crisis management," I kept my voice steady, "but the actual capital operations, stock stabilization, board management—all of that requires professional teams—"
"I don't want referrals." She closed the distance between us, voice dropping colder. "You work at Madison & Partners. You're married to Rowan Reynolds. You have resources, connections, capabilities. I'm not asking if you can do it. I'm asking how you're going to do it."
Capabilities.
The word pierced my chest like an icicle.
"You want me to ask Rowan?"
"He's your husband." Her gaze cut like a knife. "Reynolds Industries and Nexus Investment have joint projects, shared investments. He can't just stand by while our stock crashes. He has an obligation to help."
He's your husband.
I thought of the divorce agreement draft sitting on my nightstand. Thought of him sitting beside Nora on the plane. Thought of the indifference in his eyes when he'd said, We're a contractual arrangement.
"Our contract expires in three weeks," I heard myself say.
Vivian's expression didn't waver.
"Then renew it."
The air seemed to solidify.
"What?"
"You heard me. Renew it." She took another step closer. "Lena, you think I don't know what you're thinking? You want to leave. You want to shed the Grant name. You want to live your own life. But you're forgetting something—your life was never yours to begin with. You were born into this family. That comes with responsibilities."
Responsibilities.
That word again.
"I've already fulfilled my responsibilities," I said quietly, each word crisp. "Two years of contract marriage. Two years of playing the part. I've done everything you asked—"
"You haven't done enough." Her tone remained flat. "Marcus destroyed this family, but the company survives. As long as the company survives, the Grant family has hope. You're my only daughter, Lena. If you won't help me, who will?"
I looked at her.
This woman—my mother—stood there, spine straight, expression cold, as if chairing a board meeting. She wasn't asking. Wasn't pleading. She was simply stating facts. Assigning tasks.
The way she'd made me start piano lessons at ten.
The way she'd enrolled me in etiquette classes at fifteen.
The way she'd married me off to Rowan Reynolds at twenty-three.
What is your responsibility?
"I won't renew," I said.
"So you'll watch the Grant family crumble in your hands?"
"I didn't destroy it." My voice dropped lower. "Marcus did. You did. This family's obsession with power did."
Her face went pale.
"What did you say?"
"I said," I stood, meeting her eyes directly, "I don't owe you anything. I gave you two years. That's enough."
Vivian stared at me, something unfamiliar flickering in her eyes—shock? Anger? Or... disappointment?
"You'll regret this," she finally said, voice soft. "One day, you'll regret the words you've spoken tonight."
"Maybe," I said. "But at least I won't regret refusing to be a tool anymore."
She turned, grabbed her handbag, and walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
"Marcus saw you at the airport, didn't he?" She didn't turn around. "He called me. Said you were with Rowan."
I didn't answer.
"He won't let you go," she said. "He'll use you as leverage against me. You'd better be careful."
"I will."
She pushed through the door and disappeared into the night.
The silver Mercedes started, headlights sweeping across the windows before vanishing down the drive.
---
I stood in the center of the living room, staring at the cold tea on the coffee table.
You'll regret this.
Maybe I would.
But right now, I only felt tired.
The door opened again.
Rowan walked in, sliding his phone into his pocket. He scanned the room, gaze settling on my face.
"She left?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"She wanted me to figure out how to save Nexus Investment." I turned to face him. "She wanted me to ask you for help. She wanted me to renew the contract."
His expression didn't change, but something darkened in his eyes.
"And what did you say?"
"I refused."