Chapter 89
Rowan's POV
The conference room emptied in efficient silence. Diana lingered in the hallway with Jack, their voices low and cautious. Rachel gathered files near the elevator. And Lena—
Lena stood with her back to me, waiting for the elevator, her posture as straight and composed as it had been throughout the entire meeting.
I stayed in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame, the other in my pocket. Casual. Unhurried. As if I hadn't spent the last hour acutely aware of every angle of her profile, every measured word she'd spoken.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since I'd last seen her—two weeks since the divorce papers were filed and she'd walked out of my office with that same unshakeable calm.
Throughout the meeting, her eyes had barely touched mine. Professional courtesy, nothing more. She'd handled the Harrison mess with the same precision I remembered from the early days—back when she'd been the anonymous researcher who'd saved my company without ever asking for recognition.
The memory stirred something uncomfortable in my chest.
Jack's background report sat in my desk drawer, pages of childhood documentation I hadn't asked for but couldn't ignore. Marcus's violence. Vivian's cold manipulation. The kind of details that explained everything and changed nothing.
The elevator chimed.
I cleared my throat. "Lena."
Not loud. Not urgent. Just her name, spoken like an afterthought.
She paused, her hand still on her briefcase strap. Said something quiet to Rachel, who nodded and stepped into the elevator alone. Then Lena turned, walking back toward me—but stopping a careful three meters away.
Her eyebrows lifted in polite inquiry. The expression of someone waiting for a client to finish a thought.
"Is there something else about the settlement?" Her voice was courteous, professional. Detached.
The settlement. Not our agreement or what happened today. The settlement. Two business entities resolving a dispute.
"No." I kept my tone even. "Settlement's handled." A beat. "Just wanted a few words with you."
She waited, her face betraying nothing.
"We made a mistake," she said after a moment. "I'm sorry for all this. I know Jack was innocent."
Her tone was flat, neither defensive nor warm. She was waiting for me to say whatever I'd called her back for so she could leave. And the way she'd mentioned Jack so naturally—as if she cared more about his vindication than anything involving me—sparked an irrational flicker of irritation.
I pushed it down.
"Actually," I said, "I wanted to mention the Nora situation. You never really let me thank you properly for understanding."
Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes cooled further.
"There's nothing to thank me for," she said. "Your statement was clear. I appreciated the clarification. Professionally."
Professionally. She'd emphasized the word like a border wall.
I straightened slightly. "Just professionally?"
It came out more pointed than I'd intended—not quite a challenge, but close. Testing the boundary she'd just set.
Her gaze didn't waver. "Yes." Firm. Final. Then, in case I'd missed the message: "Rowan. What you do, who you're with now... that's not my concern anymore."
Anymore. The word hung between us, loaded with implication. Had it been her concern once? Or was she simply drawing a line under something that had never existed in the first place?
My jaw tightened—a brief lapse in control. I felt my expression go flat, and for three seconds, neither of us spoke.
She'd already categorized me. Former spouse. Contract fulfilled. No longer relevant.
I shifted my weight, forcing my voice back to neutral. "I heard about Marcus."
Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her briefcase strap.
"Threats. Extortion attempts." I paused, watching her. "And Vivian's still pushing you toward another arrangement."
"Family matters." Her tone was brisk. "Thank you for your concern, but I'll handle it."
The dismissal was absolute. But I couldn't quite let it go.
"Were they always like that?" The question came out quieter than I'd planned. "Marcus and Vivian. Growing up—did they—"
I didn't finish. Didn't need to.
Lena's gaze sharpened, and for the first time since the elevator, she looked at me—not through me, not past me, but directly at me. Her eyes were cool, distant, and faintly incredulous.
"Why does it matter now?"
It wasn't a question seeking an answer. It was a door being closed.
I exhaled slowly. "Because I should have asked before." A beat. "If you need help—with Marcus, with Vivian—"
"When we were married," she said, cutting me off with surgical precision, "I never expected you to help. Why would I expect it now?"
She let the words settle, let their weight press down between us.
"We had a contract. It's fulfilled. That's all."
No anger. No bitterness. Just a calm, factual statement—and somehow, that made it worse than any accusation could have been.
My mouth tightened at the corners. I didn't look away, didn't argue, didn't defend myself. What was there to say? She was right. I'd never given her a reason to rely on me. And now, when I wanted to offer something—anything—it was too late. She didn't need me. Didn't want to need me.
"At least be careful with Marcus," I said finally. My voice was flat, businesslike—the same tone I'd use to advise a client. "He's unpredictable. And he knows how to hurt people."
"I know." Two syllables. No elaboration. No gratitude.
She turned toward the stairwell—not the elevator, as if she couldn't leave fast enough—and disappeared through the door without looking back.
I stood there, listening to her footsteps echo down the stairs.
"Mr. Reynolds?"
Jack's voice pulled me back. He was walking toward me from the other end of the hallway, looking cautiously relieved.
"I talked to Diana," he said. "She apologized. Seemed genuine. I think we're good."
I nodded absently. "Good."
"Are we heading back to the office?"
"In a minute."
He hesitated, then nodded and walked toward the elevator.
I stayed where I was, staring at the empty stairwell door.
When we were married, I never expected you to help.
The cufflinks in my desk drawer flashed through my mind—the platinum ones she'd given me, engraved with the family crest. A gift chosen with thought, with care. I'd worn them twice.
I turned and walked back into the conference room, pulling out my phone.
One message from Colin: Drinks tonight?
I typed back: Maybe.
Then I opened the drawer in my mind where I'd filed away Jack's report. Marcus's abuse. Vivian's calculated cruelty. The kind of childhood that taught you not to expect help from anyone.
And I'd reinforced that lesson for two years.
I pocketed my phone and headed for the elevator, Jack's earlier words replaying in my head: I think we're good.
Good.
I wasn't sure I knew what that word meant anymore.