Chapter 3
Lena's POV
The car glided through Silverton's evening traffic toward The Oak Club, Rowan's hands steady on the wheel. Between us lay the kind of silence that had become routine—not hostile, just empty. Like the space between strangers forced to share an elevator.
"Duration?" His voice cut through the quiet.
"Three hours minimum," I said, checking my phone. "Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, dancing at nine-thirty."
"The Hartfords?"
"Confirmed. They'll want to discuss the merger." I scrolled through my notes.
The Oak Club's entrance came into view—all Georgian columns and old money pretension. Valets rushed forward. Cameras flashed from the designated press area. I adjusted my posture automatically, muscle memory from two years of practice.
"Ready?" Rowan asked, his hand on the door handle.
No. "Yes."
He circled the car, opened my door with the precise choreography we'd perfected. His hand found mine as I stepped out, warm and firm and meaningless. I slipped my arm through his, felt his bicep flex slightly as he tucked me closer.
To the cameras, we were flawless—the powerful attorney and her even more powerful husband, united and untouchable.
Three more weeks.
The ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns. Rowan's hand settled at the small of my back—proprietary, practiced. We moved through the crowd like pieces on a chessboard, stopping at each cluster of Silverton's elite to exchange the same hollow pleasantries.
"Lena! Rowan!" Margaret Hartford, our business partner, descended on us, champagne flute raised. "You two look absolutely radiant. Marriage clearly agrees with you."
"We're very happy," I said, the words smooth as silk. Rowan's thumb traced a small circle against my back—part of the act, nothing more.
"Such a beautiful couple," cooed Eleanor, a distant relative of Reynolds. "When are you going to give us some good news? The city's waiting for little Reynolds heirs."
My smile didn't falter, but my spine went rigid. Rowan's hand pressed slightly harder against my back.
"These things take time," he said, his tone carrying just enough dismissal to end that line of questioning.
Colin Summers, Rowan's buddy, materialized beside us, trademark smirk in place. "Come on, you two have been married for what, two years? The suspense is killing us." He winked at me. "Unless you're waiting for the perfect moment?"
"We're not discussing our family planning at a charity gala," I said lightly, taking a sip of champagne to avoid elaborating.
"Secretive as always." Colin turned to Rowan. "You're a lucky man, you know that?"
"I'm aware." Rowan's voice held that edge of something darker. His gaze slid to me, lingering for a beat too long. "Though luck has nothing to do with it."
Transaction. Contract. Expiration date.
"If you'll excuse us," I said, already moving toward the terrace doors. The crowd was suffocating—too many smiles, too many assumptions, too many lies hanging in the air like expensive perfume.
The orchestra began playing, signaling the start of the dancing portion. Rowan appeared at my elbow, extending his hand with that same neutral expression.
"Shall we?"
Refusing would draw attention. I placed my hand in his, let him lead me to the dance floor. His other hand found my waist, pulling me into position. Close enough that our bodies touched, far enough that an inch of propriety remained.
We moved in perfect synchronization—another skill we'd mastered through necessity. His cologne filled my lungs, familiar and foreign at once. I kept my gaze somewhere over his shoulder, watching other couples spin past in their own elaborate performances.
"Your smile's been off all night," Rowan murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Thinking about the contract?"
The directness caught me off guard. I met his eyes—steel gray and unreadable. "Does it matter?"
"You tell me." His hand flexed slightly at my waist. "You're the one who's been counting down."
"And you haven't?" The words came out sharper than intended. I softened my tone. "We both knew what this was. Don't pretend otherwise."
"I'm not pretending anything." His jaw clenched. "But you're the one who can barely stand to look at me."
Because looking hurts. Because every time I do, I remember what I convinced myself to ignore.
"You're tired," I said instead, my voice flat. "We both are. Of playing these roles."
The music swelled around us. His fingers tightened fractionally before releasing. "Maybe you're right."
We finished the dance in silence, both of us staring past each other at nothing.
I slipped away to the terrace after the dance, needing air that wasn't thick with champagne and judgment. The November night bit at my bare shoulders, but I welcomed the cold. It cleared my head, sharpened the edges that two years of performance had dulled.
Footsteps echoed behind me. Of course he'd followed.
Rowan leaned against the stone railing beside me, producing a cigar from his jacket. The flame from his lighter cast shadows across his features—all sharp angles and studied indifference. He took a slow drag, exhaled smoke that disappeared into the dark.
"One more month," he said finally, his tone carrying something that might have been mockery. "Then this whole performance ends. You must be relieved."
I turned to face him fully. "Are you trying to provoke me?"
"Just making conversation." Another drag. "Though I have to wonder—will you miss it? The galas, the appearances, the perfect marriage everyone envies?"
"I won't miss the lies."
"Lies." He laughed, the sound bitter. "That's what you're calling it now?"
"What would you call it?" I met his gaze directly, refusing to look away. "We signed a contract, fulfilled our obligations, and now we're done. That's not lying, that's completing a transaction."
"Right. A transaction." He turned the cigar between his fingers, watching the ember glow. "And what about—"
"What about what?" I cut him off, my voice hard. "We agreed. Two years, clean dissolution, no complications. You want to renegotiate now?"
His eyes narrowed. "Do you ever let yourself feel anything, or is everything a negotiation?"
The question landed like a slap. My fingers curled around the railing, nails digging into stone.
"I feel plenty," I said quietly. "I just don't mistake business arrangements for something they're not."
"And what am I, Lena?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could see my reflection in his eyes. "Another item to check off your list?"
The most important one. The one that almost broke me.
"You're exactly what we agreed you'd be," I said. "Nothing more, nothing less."
He stared at me for a long moment, something flickering behind his carefully maintained mask. Then he straightened, flicking ash into the darkness.
"Fair enough." His voice had gone cold again. "Wouldn't want to complicate things."
He walked back inside without another word, leaving me alone with the November wind and the weight of everything I couldn't say.
