Chapter 55
Lena's POV
The bar was dimly lit, all dark wood and leather. Maybe a dozen people scattered throughout, most of them alone with their drinks.
I spotted Rowan immediately.
He was in a booth near the back, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. His tie was loosened, collar unbuttoned. There was an empty glass in front of him and another half-full one within reach.
He looked... tired. Exhausted, actually. In a way I hadn't seen before.
I walked over. "Rowan."
His eyes opened. For a moment, he just stared at me like he wasn't quite sure I was real.
Then he blinked. "You came."
"You called." I kept my voice neutral. "Can you walk?"
"Sure."
He pushed himself up from the booth.
I saw it immediately—the slight sway, the way he gripped the table edge for balance.
Drunk. Not falling-down drunk, but definitely not sober.
I stepped forward before he could try to stand on his own and grabbed his elbow. My other hand went to his back, steadying him.
"Lean on me."
He hesitated. For a second, I thought he might argue, pull away, insist he was fine.
But then he let his weight settle against me, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath mixed with his cologne.
How many times have I done this? The thought came unbidden. How many nights did I wait up, listening for the garage door, ready to help him up the stairs when he came home too late and too drunk?
I pushed the thought away. Focused on getting him to the car.
---
The drive home was quiet.
He kept his eyes closed, head resting against the seat. I watched the road, both hands on the wheel, hyperaware of his presence in the passenger seat.
Should I say something? I wondered. Ask him why he was drinking alone? Why he came back early? Why he specifically asked for me to pick him up?
But the questions stayed locked in my throat.
At the red light on Fifth and Maple, I glanced over at him.
His face was relaxed in a way it rarely was when he was awake. No tension in his jaw. No careful mask.
He looked younger like this. Vulnerable.
"Did you eat anything?" I asked.
"No."
Of course not. I'd already suspected as much.
"Martha's preparing soup. It'll be ready when we get home."
He made a small sound—acknowledgment, maybe, or thanks. I couldn't tell.
I'd asked Martha to make it before leaving for the bar. Soup was usually what I made when he came home like this. Something warm and light that wouldn't upset his stomach. Something to absorb the alcohol and make sure he didn't wake up feeling completely wrecked.
Old habits.
The light changed. I pressed the gas.
---
By the time we pulled into the garage, I thought he might have fallen asleep.
But when I turned off the engine, his eyes opened.
"Rowan. We're home."
He nodded slowly, then reached for the door handle.
I was out of my seat and around to his side before he could get the door fully open. Caught his elbow as he stood up.
"This way."
He didn't argue. Just let me guide him through the garage door, into the mudroom, through the kitchen where Martha was ladling soup into a bowl.
She gave me a quick, knowing look but said nothing.
I steered Rowan toward the stairs. "Can you manage the stairs?"
"Yeah."
But I stayed close anyway, one step behind, ready to catch him if he stumbled.
We made it to the second floor. I turned left toward the guest room he'd been using for the past three weeks.
The door was already open—Martha's doing, probably. She always thought ahead like that.
I walked him to the bed. "Sit."
He sat.
I crouched down and unlaced his shoes, pulled them off one by one. The same routine I'd done dozens of times before. Maybe hundreds.
"Lie back."
He did. I pulled the blanket up, tucked it around his shoulders with practiced efficiency.
"I'll bring the soup up in a few minutes. Try to stay awake long enough to eat some."
I turned to go.
His hand caught my wrist.
I froze. Looked back.
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I couldn't read the expression there. Something complicated. Something that looked almost like...
Don't, I told myself firmly. Don't read into it. Don't hope.
"Lena."
"What?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Whatever he'd been about to say died unsaid.
I waited another moment, then gently pulled my wrist free.
"Get some rest."
I left before he could say anything else.
---
In the kitchen, Martha had the soup ready—chicken broth with rice, simple and light.
"Thank you," I said, taking the bowl from her.
She gave me a long look. "Will you be needing anything else tonight?"
"No. You can go home. I'll take care of this."
She nodded and gathered her things.
I stood at the stove, staring down at the soup, and felt something tight and uncomfortable lodge itself in my chest.
This is the last time, I reminded myself. The last time you'll help him up the stairs. The last time you'll tuck him in and pretend it's just responsibility, just obligation, just fulfilling the terms of the contract.
I'd done this so many times over the past two years.
In the beginning, I'd told myself it was part of the role. The dutiful wife. The supportive partner. Making sure he was taken care of, that he didn't wake up alone and hungover with no one to help.
And maybe—if I was being honest with myself—there had been a small, stubborn hope. That if I did these things, if I showed him I could be the kind of wife he needed, he might eventually see me. Really see me.
But he never did.
He'd say thank you. Polite. Distant. The same way he'd thank Martha or Jack or anyone else who provided a service.
Because that's all I was. Another service provider. Another name on the contract.
I picked up the bowl and carried it upstairs.