Chapter 64
Lena's POV
Isabelle waved us off. "Go on, then. Drive safely, Lena. And remember what I said—don't let one bad experience sour you on the whole institution."
"I won't," I said with a small smile. "Thank you for dinner. It was lovely."
"Anytime, dear. You're always welcome here. Always."
The words warmed something in my chest. I nodded, genuinely grateful, and let Rowan lead me toward the front door.
---
The night air was cool and clear. We walked in silence down the curved driveway toward where I'd parked my car—not the Tesla I'd driven during our marriage, but my own Audi that I'd retrieved from storage last week.
"She means well," Rowan said finally.
"I know."
"She's just... protective of you."
"I know," I said again. "I appreciate it."
We reached my car. I pulled out my keys, the metal cold against my palm.
"Lena." Rowan's voice stopped me before I could open the door. "Are you really planning to do this again?"
I turned to face him. "Do what?"
"Find another arrangement. Another... contract marriage." The words came out stiff. "Is that what you want?"
I considered the question. Honestly considered it. "Maybe. It's efficient. Clear boundaries, aligned interests." I met his eyes. "It worked well enough for what it was."
Something flickered across his face. "That's not—" He stopped. Started again. "Just be careful. Not every man will be as straightforward as I was. Not everyone will honor the terms."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said evenly. "Thank you for the advice."
He stepped closer, close enough that I caught the familiar scent of his cologne. "Lena, I just think—"
"Good night, Rowan."
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else. I waited, but the words didn't come. Whatever he was thinking, he'd decided to keep it to himself.
"Good night," he said finally.
I got in the car and started the engine. In my peripheral vision, I could see him still standing there. I adjusted the mirrors, put the car in gear, and pulled away smoothly.
In the rearview mirror, his silhouette grew smaller until the curve of the driveway took him out of sight.
---
The drive back to my new apartment was quiet. I turned on the radio, found a jazz station, let the music fill the silence.
It was done. Really done this time. The papers signed, the final dinner concluded, the last goodbye said.
I felt... lighter. Not happy, exactly. But relieved. Like I'd been holding my breath for two years and could finally exhale.
My phone buzzed at a red light. A text from Isabelle: [You're still family to me, no matter what. Don't be a stranger.]
I smiled at the screen. Typed back: [Thank you. That means more than you know.]
Another buzz: [And if you need someone to vet the next candidate, I'm available. I have very high standards.]
This time I actually laughed. [I'll keep that in mind.]
The light turned green. I set the phone down and continued driving, the city lights streaming past my windows. Tomorrow I had a meeting with Diana about the Patterson case. The month after that, a speaking engagement at a legal conference.
My life was full. Busy. Mine.
The contract was over.
And I was going to be fine.
---
The next day, I had dinner planned with my partner and assistants.
The restaurant I'd chosen was a quiet Italian place three blocks from our new office—good food, reasonable prices, the kind of spot where you could actually hear conversation. After a week and a half of organized chaos, we'd earned a proper meal together.
Diana arrived first, sliding into the booth with her usual efficiency. Sophia followed, Diana's longtime paralegal who'd agreed to take a chance on our startup venture. Rachel came last.
"So," I said once we'd ordered, "I wanted to say thank you. All of you. For taking this leap with me."
"Please," Diana said. "You gave me an excuse to stop taking cases I hated. I should be thanking you."
Sophia smiled. "It's been refreshing, honestly. Helping build something from scratch instead of just maintaining someone else's empire."
Rachel nodded eagerly. "I've learned more about case management in ten days here than I did in six months at Madison."
The conversation flowed easily after that—war stories from our first week, the quirks of our sublet office, Rachel's ongoing battle with the temperamental coffee maker. It felt good. Right. Like we were actually building something that mattered.
Then Sophia mentioned the Annual Legal Excellence Gala.
"It's next Friday," she said, pulling up something on her phone. "I saw the invitation in our general inbox. Diana, didn't you attend once?"
Diana's expression suggested she'd rather have a root canal. "Years ago. Black tie, mediocre chicken, endless small talk. Every major firm in the city sends people. Why?"
"My friend at Miller & Associates said they landed several good clients from connections made at last year's gala," Sophia offered. "And there's usually a keynote from someone influential—this year it's Judge Evans."
I paused, wine glass halfway to my lips. At Madison, clients had found us through the firm's reputation and Richard's extensive network. We'd never had to actively seek them out.
But we weren't Madison anymore.
"What's the ticket price?" I asked.
"Five hundred per person," Sophia said. "Or four thousand for a table of eight."
I considered this. Five hundred wasn't a financial strain—I could afford it easily. But it represented something else: a willingness to step into spaces I'd always avoided, to play the networking game I'd never had to play before.
At Madison, I'd been able to hide behind the firm's prestige. Now, I was the firm.
"I should go," I said, the decision crystallizing as I spoke. "We need visibility. People need to know we exist and that we're serious competition."
Diana's eyebrow lifted. "You hate these things."
"I do," I admitted. "But Madison got away with being selective about networking because they already had fifty years of reputation. We have ten days and word of mouth."
"Fair point." Diana was quiet for a moment, then: "I'll come with you. Someone needs to make sure you actually talk to people instead of analyzing the exits."
Something loosened in my chest—gratitude, maybe, or just relief that I wouldn't be walking into that room alone.
"It's a plan, then," I said. "Rachel, can you handle the tickets?"
"Already on it," she said, pulling out her tablet.
The conversation shifted to lighter topics—Sophia's ongoing feud with the building's parking attendant, Rachel's discovery of an excellent lunch spot two blocks over. We laughed, swapped stories, felt like an actual team.