Chapter 30 THIRTY
Lennox stepped out of the elevator first, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. The penthouse was dark except for the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in shadows.
She turned to face him, arms crossed. "So talk."
Callum loosened his tie, yanked it off completely, and tossed it on the entry table. His movements were jerky, controlled violence barely contained. "What the hell was that tonight?"
"What was what?" She kicked off her heels, grateful to be flat on her feet again. Made her feel less vulnerable somehow.
"You. With that art dealer."
"Isaiah? We were just talking."
"Right. Talking." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You were flirting."
"I was not..."
"He asked for your number, Lennox."
"To discuss art! God, not everything is about..." She stopped, frustration bubbling up hot and acidic in her throat. "You know what? Even if I was flirting, which I wasn't, why the hell do you care?"
His jaw tightened. "Because you're my wife."
"I'm your contract wife. There's a difference."
"Not to the rest of the world. Not to the photographers tonight, or the investors, or anyone else watching." He moved closer, and she could see the anger simmering in his eyes. "You think they care about the details? You're a Westbrook now. That means something."
"Oh, so this is about your precious reputation?" She laughed bitterly. "About how it looks?"
"It's about you doing the job you agreed to do."
The words hit like a slap. "The job."
"Yes. The job. Playing my wife in public. Being appropriate. Not..." He gestured vaguely, like he couldn't find the words. "Not giving some random guy your attention while I'm standing right there."
"I wasn't giving him anything! We talked about paintings for ten minutes. That's it. And you acted like... like some jealous husband who actually gives a damn."
"I'm not jealous." His voice went cold, that familiar ice creeping back in. "I'm asking you to fulfill your contractual obligations. Is that really too much?"
Lennox felt something crack in her chest. "You're unbelievable. You've barely spoken to me in days. You treat me like I'm invisible unless we're in public, and then suddenly tonight you're all over me, acting possessive and territorial. Make up your damn mind, Callum. Either I matter or I don't."
"This isn't about..."
"Yes it is!" Her voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings. "It's about exactly that. You don't get to ignore me when it's convenient and then act like I'm your possession when another man shows me basic human kindness."
"He wasn't being kind, he was..."
"He was being fucking nice! The kind of nice that people are when they're not emotionally constipated billionaires with control issues."
Callum's eyes flashed. "Watch it."
"Or what? You'll be even colder? Add more rules to this fake marriage?" She was yelling now, months of frustration pouring out. "I wasn't flirting, Callum. I was having a conversation. A real one."
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair! You want me to play the perfect wife for cameras, to smile and touch you and let you kiss me like it means something, and then the second we're alone I'm supposed to what? Disappear? Pretend I don't exist?"
"I never said..."
"You don't have to say it. You make it perfectly clear every single day." Her hands were shaking. "I wasn't flirting with Isaiah. But honestly? Maybe I should have been. At least he acted like talking to me wasn't a chore."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Callum's face went blank. That mask sliding back into place, the one that made him look carved from marble instead of flesh and blood. When he spoke, his voice was arctic.
"Pull yourself together and play your already agreed part. That's all I'm asking."
He turned and walked away. Down the hall. Into his bedroom.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
Lennox stood there, shaking with anger and hurt and something else she refused to name. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
Pull yourself together.
Like she was the problem.
She stormed to her bathroom, turned the shower on as hot as it would go, and stepped under the spray still wearing the stupid emerald dress. Watched the water darken the silk before finally peeling it off and letting it drop to the floor in a soaked heap.
Patricia would talk her ears off for ruining a designer gown. She didn't care.
The water scalded her skin but she barely felt it. Just stood there, letting the heat wash over her, trying to breathe through the tight thing in her chest that felt suspiciously like crying.
She wasn't going to cry. Not over him. Not over this ridiculous situation she'd gotten herself into.
After what felt like hours, she got out, threw on jeans and a sweater, and grabbed her phone. The penthouse felt suffocating, all glass and expensive furniture and memories of a man who couldn't decide if she was a person or a problem.
She needed air. Space. Anything but here.
She left without thinking, taking the elevator down and walking out into the night. The doorman looked surprised to see her leaving so late but didn't say anything. She walked with no destination, just moving, letting the cold November air bite at her face and hands.
The city was quieter this time of night but never truly silent. Car horns. Distant sirens. The hum of people living their lives in buildings stacked up toward the sky. She walked for blocks, past closed shops and late-night diners, until her anger finally burned itself out and left just exhaustion behind.
Her phone’s clock read past midnight when she finally turned back.
The penthouse was still mostly dark when she let herself in. She expected silence, maybe to see the light under Callum's door. Instead, she found him in the living room, pacing in front of the windows.
He spun around when the elevator doors opened. For just a second, his face did something complicated. Relief maybe, or worry, before it smoothed back into careful neutrality.
"Where did you go?" His voice was controlled but something underneath it wasn't.
Lennox dropped her keys on the entry table. Looked at him standing there in the same clothes from the gallery minus the jacket, shirt wrinkled now, hair messed up like he'd been running his hands through it.
She felt nothing. Or everything. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
"I went to pull myself together," she said, her voice dripping with scorn. "Husband."
She walked past him, close enough to smell his cologne, far enough that they didn't touch. Down the hall. Into her room.
The lock clicked loudly in the silence.
On the other side of the door, she heard nothing. No footsteps. No movement.
Just the sound of her own breathing and the too-fast beating of her heart.