Chapter 9
Lena's POV
The lake house was dark when I pulled into the driveway. Not completely—there was a light on in the living room, a warm glow visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I gathered my briefcase and laptop bag, locked the car. The gravel crunched under my heels as I walked to the front door. Inside, I could hear nothing. No music, no television, just the kind of silence that meant someone was waiting.
He was in the living room, as expected. Sitting in the leather armchair by the fireplace, a glass of something amber in his hand. Not his first, judging by the way he looked at me—that particular intensity that meant he'd been thinking too much.
"You're late," he said.
"I had work." I set my bags down by the stairs, slipped off my coat. "The Reynolds project."
"Right. That."
Something in his tone made me pause. I looked at him properly then—the loose tie, the rolled-up sleeves, the way his fingers drummed against the armrest. Restless. Rowan was never restless unless something was bothering him.
"When did you know?" he asked.
I hung my coat in the closet, buying time. "Know what?"
"About Marcus. The fraud, the embezzlement—all of it." He took a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving me. "When did you know your father was stealing from your mother's company?"
My hand stilled on the closet door. "Why does it matter?"
"Because you announced you weren't renewing our contract the same week the news broke." His voice was carefully neutral, lawyer-negotiating-a-deal neutral. "That's quite a coincidence."
I turned to face him fully. "You think I knew."
"Did you?"
"Would it change anything if I did?"
"It might explain why you're so eager to end this arrangement." He set his glass down with a soft click. "You're worried Marcus's mess will splash onto Reynolds Industries. That association with the Grant family will become a liability."
The laugh escaped before I could stop it. Sharp, bitter. "Is that what you think? That I'm trying to protect you?"
"Aren't you?" He stood, crossed the space between us. Not touching, but close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You've always been practical, Lena. Strategic. Terminating our contract before the scandal fully unfolds would be the smart move."
My chest felt tight. Not from anger—anger would have been cleaner, simpler. This was something else. Something that tasted like disappointment.
"You don't know me at all," I said quietly.
"Then explain it to me."
I could have. Should have, maybe. Told him that I'd suspected Marcus for months, that I'd seen the pattern of transfers and shell companies in documents I'd been asked to review. That I'd warned Vivian, been ignored, watched the inevitable unfold with the grim satisfaction of being proven right.
But that wasn't what he was really asking.
"Even if we don't terminate the contract," Rowan continued when I didn't answer, "I can handle Marcus's situation. Reynolds Industries has enough influence to insulate us from any fallout. The board has already discussed contingency plans—"
"Stop."
He blinked. "Lena—"
"Are you pitching me a crisis management plan right now?" My voice came out flat. Dead. "Is that what this is?"
"I'm telling you that you don't need to worry. That I can protect—"
"I don't need your protection." The words landed like stones between us. "I don't need you to manage my family's crisis. I don't need you to... to pity me."
His expression shifted. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or offense. "Pity? You think I'm offering to help out of pity?"
"What else would you call it?" I moved past him, needing distance. "You've made it very clear over the past two years what this arrangement is. A contract. A business transaction. No feelings, no complications, no—"
"You're so goddamn cold sometimes." His voice cut across mine. "You know that? Everything's a calculation with you. Every emotion gets processed through that brilliant analytical mind until there's nothing left but numbers and logic."
I froze at the window, my reflection ghost-pale in the dark glass. "That's rich, coming from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." I pressed my fingers to my temples. This conversation was spiraling, becoming something I hadn't intended. "Can we just—it's been a long day. I need to prepare for tomorrow's meeting with your team."
"Right. The meeting." He moved closer, his reflection joining mine in the window. "About that."
"Public doesn't have to know." I kept my voice steady. Professional. "About us. Our arrangement. Whatever you want to call it."
"Our marriage, you mean."
"Our contract." I turned to face him. "Which expires in twenty days. There's no reason to complicate a professional engagement with personal history. We can work together as client and counsel. That's all."
The silence stretched thin between us.
"I see," he said finally. His jaw was tight, that muscle jumping the way it did when he was angry. "So I'm that embarrassing, am I? So unsuitable that you can't even acknowledge—"
"Rowan—"
"No, I get it. You want everything neat. Compartmentalized. The contract marriage that never really happened, the husband who'll disappear on schedule, no loose ends to deal with." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Christ, Lena. You act like I'm begging you to stay. Like I'm the one who can't let go."
My throat felt tight. "That's not—"
"For the record," he interrupted, voice hard now, controlled, "the Reynolds project? That wasn't me. That was the board's decision. They wanted Madison & Partners because you're the best at what you do. Your background, your expertise—that's why you got the assignment. Not because I'm trying to keep you close or whatever narrative you've constructed."
"I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to." He picked up his glass, drained it. "You've made it perfectly clear what you think of me. Of this. So let's do what you want—keep it professional. Client and counsel. No personal complications."
He walked past me toward the stairs, movements sharp with suppressed anger.
"Rowan."
He paused, didn't turn around.