Chapter 33
Rowan's POV
My phone buzzed as the car turned onto the lakeside road.
Colin's name flashed on the screen. I opened the message.
A photograph. Warm restaurant lighting. Lena sat by a window across from a man in a charcoal suit. She was cutting pasta, her expression relaxed—softer than I'd seen in months. Not the professional mask she wore at Reynolds Industries. Something genuine.
Colin's text followed: [Ran into your wife at Rossi's.]
I zoomed in. The man leaned forward, smiling. His posture was familiar, comfortable. Not a first meeting.
Another message appeared: [Want me to dig?]
I stared at the photograph for several seconds before typing back: [Yes.]
[Feeling threatened? That's new.]
I ignored that. [Full background. Relationship history.]
[On it. Fair warning—if his record's cleaner than yours, might sting.]
I locked the phone and leaned back. The photograph stayed behind my eyelids. Lena's genuine smile. The ease in her posture. Things I hadn't seen directed at me in—how long?
The car pulled into the driveway. I climbed the stairs to my study and opened my laptop. Colin's email was already waiting: "Daniel Whitmore—Complete Profile."
I poured scotch and clicked the attachment.
[Daniel Whitmore. Age 32. VP at Whitmore Manufacturing—promoted three days ago. Silverton Law School MBA, former student body president.]
[Relationship History: Two-year relationship during university, amicable split. Eighteen months with a designer in Germany, ended due to relocation. Brief involvement with a French attorney in Paris last year.]
Colin's note at the bottom: [Long-term relationships, clean endings. Work-related separations mostly. Pretty decent compared to guys who keep their exes around.]
I took a drink.
The next section stopped me cold.
[Connection to Lena Grant: Law school classmates. Multiple group projects together. Invited her to dance at graduation ball—she declined. No contact for seven years until this week.']
Graduation ball.
That was obviously him expressing romantic interest.
The clock on my desk read 10:00 PM. Still no Lena.
I refilled my glass.
---
The sound of the front door made me set down the scotch. I walked to the study doorway.
Lena was hanging up her coat in the foyer. Hair in a low ponytail, suit still pressed despite the late hour. She looked up, saw me at the top of the stairs.
"Still up?" Her tone was neutral.
"How was dinner?"
She stepped out of her heels. "Fine."
"Rossi's hasn't changed, then."
Her hand stilled on her briefcase. "How did you know where I was?"
"Colin saw you."
"Of course he did." She picked up her shoes.
I came down the stairs. "Planning to marry him?"
She looked up. "What?"
"Daniel Whitmore." I replied.
"That's not your concern."
"We have two weeks left. Until then—"
"Until then, what?" She set down her briefcase. "Our contract covers public appearances and business obligations. Not my personal time."
"Do you really know him?"
"What did you find? Clean background? Stable career?" She paused. "No ex-girlfriends conveniently reappearing?"
My jaw tightened. "That's different."
"How?"
I stepped closer. "I'm not the one planning the next arrangement before this one ends."
"Neither am I." Her voice stayed level. "I had dinner with a client. To apologize for a contract error and negotiate resolution. Professional courtesy."
Silence.
Then she just moved past me toward the stairs.
"Lena." I caught her wrist.
She stopped but didn't turn. "Let go."
"He's not suitable."
Something flashed across her face—anger, defiance.
"Based on what criteria?" Lena's voice turned sharp. "Because he has had girl friends? That makes him unsuitable? What about you, Rowan? Is your relationship history pristine?"
"Lena—"
"Don't judge others by your standards." She cut me off. "Daniel's at least honest. He doesn't treat marriage as a business arrangement while keeping his first love on speed dial."
My jaw clenched. She wasn't wrong.
"You're right," I admitted, my voice dropping lower. "I'm not qualified to judge him. But Lena—" I moved closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head to maintain eye contact. "Until that contract expires, don't make me a cuckold."
Her breath caught.
"You—"
"I what?"
I held her gaze—possessive, demanding. I couldn't help it.
"I won't be like you." Her words came out cold, precise. The mockery in her tone was unmistakable.
She turned toward the stairs.
"I'm tired. Good night, Rowan."
"Lena."
She didn't stop. Didn't look back.
Her footsteps disappeared down the upstairs hallway. A door closed—not slammed, just firmly shut.
I stood in the foyer, fist clenched at my side.
The grandfather clock ticked in the silence.
I returned to my study, stared at the laptop screen still showing Whitmore's profile. Invited her to dance at graduation ball. The scotch was warm now, bitter going down.
But it couldn't burn away her words.
Only one of us is honest about it.
I looked at my hands. They were shaking.
Outside, wind moved through the trees. Inside, the house felt cavernous and cold.
Two weeks left.
It felt like no time at all, and far too long, all at once.
I closed the laptop and finished the scotch. The burn in my throat was nothing compared to the tightness in my chest—the knowledge that she was right, and I had no defense for it.
The study was dark except for the desk lamp. I sat there until the grandfather clock struck midnight, staring at nothing, thinking about everything.
By the time I went upstairs, her bedroom light was off.
I stood outside her door for a full minute before walking to the guest room.