Chapter Seven: Almost
The first week of real cohabitation is nothing like Lena expected.
She thought it would be awkward – two strangers sharing a penthouse, navigating bathrooms and meal times and the strange intimacy of seeing someone brush their teeth. But it isn't awkward. It's surprisingly easy.
Too easy.
Damien leaves for work at six each morning, his side of the bed still warm, a cup of coffee waiting for her on the nightstand. She drinks it slowly, watching the sunrise over the city, and then goes to check on Eleanor.
The old woman is usually awake by seven, sitting in her armchair by the window, a book in her lap and a cat – where did the cat come from? – curled at her feet.
"His name is Arthur," Eleanor says, stroking the orange tabby. "After my husband. Damien had him delivered yesterday. He thought I needed company."
Lena kneels to pet the cat. Arthur purrs like a motorboat.
"That was thoughtful."
"Damien is thoughtful. He just hides it under layers of brooding." Eleanor smiles. "You're good for him. He laughed this morning. Actually laughed. I haven't heard that sound in years."
Lena's heart warms. "He laughed?"
"At something on his phone. A meme, I think. He tried to hide it, but I saw." Eleanor pats Lena's hand. "You've cracked the code, child. Don't let him lock you out again."
---
Lena's days have a new rhythm now.
Morning with Eleanor. A run on the treadmill in Damien's home gym – she never ran before, but the penthouse has a gym, and the treadmill faces a wall of windows, and running makes her feel less helpless. Then work: her night shifts at the hospital, three nights a week, where she holds other people's hands and sings to other people's children.
And then, at night, Damien.
He comes home around eight, usually later, always tired. But when he sees her – curled up on the couch, reading a book, watching TV, eating leftovers at the kitchen island – his shoulders relax. His jaw unclenches. He looks less like a CEO and more like a man.
"Hey," she says the first time he comes home to find her there.
"Hey." He hangs his coat, loosens his tie. "You're still here."
"I live here now. Remember?"
"I remember." He walks toward her, stops a few feet away. "I keep expecting to wake up and find out this was a dream."
Lena sets down her book. "Does it feel like a dream?"
"Sometimes." He sits on the couch beside her, not touching, but close. "Other times, it feels like the most real thing that's ever happened to me."
She wants to kiss him. She doesn't. She is trying to give him space, to let him set the pace.
But then his hand finds hers on the cushion between them, and his fingers lace through hers, and she thinks maybe space is overrated.
---
On Thursday, Damien comes home early.
Lena is in the kitchen, attempting to cook dinner – something simple, pasta with vegetables, nothing fancy. She is not a good cook. The vegetables are slightly burned. The pasta is slightly overcooked. But she is trying.
Damien stands in the doorway, watching her.
"You're cooking," he says.
"I'm attempting to cook. There's a difference."
"Why?"
"Because you've been working fourteen-hour days, and you look like you haven't eaten a real meal in weeks, and I wanted to do something nice." She turns to face him, a wooden spoon in her hand. "Is that allowed?"
He walks toward her. Slowly. Like she might disappear if he moves too fast.
"No one has ever cooked for me before," he says. "Not like this. Not just because they wanted to."
Lena's heart aches. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It's just the truth." He stops in front of her, takes the spoon from her hand, sets it on the counter. "Thank you."
"You haven't tasted it yet. It might be terrible."
"It doesn't matter." He cups her face. "It's the thought that counts. That's what people say, right?"
"Right."
He kisses her. Soft. Slow. Like they have all the time in the world.
The pasta gets cold.
Neither of them cares.
---
On Friday, Lena gets a call from Houston.
Her mother's second round of treatment is complete. The doctors are cautiously optimistic. The tumors have stopped growing – not shrinking yet, but stable. In the world of cancer, stable is a victory.
Lena cries when she hears the news. Standing in the middle of the penthouse, phone pressed to her ear, tears streaming down her face.
Damien finds her like that. He doesn't ask questions. He just pulls her into his arms and holds her while she sobs.
"Good tears?" he asks.
"Good tears." She laughs and cries at the same time. "The treatment is working. It's actually working."
"I told you." His voice is soft against her hair. "I told you she was strong."
"She got it from me."
"She got it from herself." He pulls back, wipes her tears with his thumbs. "You should go see her. The plane can be ready in an hour."
"No." Lena shakes her head. "She's coming home next week. I want to be here when she arrives. I want her to see the penthouse. To meet Eleanor. To see..." She trails off.
"To see what?"
"To see us. Really us. Not the fake engagement, but whatever this is becoming."
Damien's expression softens. "Whatever this is becoming," he repeats. "I like that."
"Me too."
---
Saturday is their first real date.
Not a gala. Not a family dinner. Not a public appearance staged for cameras. Just the two of them, alone, doing something normal.
Damien plans it. He won't tell her where they're going, only that she should dress warmly and wear comfortable shoes.
"You're not going to make me hike, are you?" Lena asks, pulling on a sweater.
"I'm not going to make you do anything."
"That's a lie. You made me sign a thirty-seven-page contract."
"You signed it willingly." He holds out his hand. "Come on. The car is waiting."
The car takes them to the waterfront. Not the touristy part – a quiet pier at the edge of the city, where the water is gray and the sky is gray and the only sounds are the crying gulls and the lapping waves.
A small boat is tied to the dock. Not a yacht – a simple wooden sailboat, old but well-maintained, with white sails furled and a cabin that looks cozy.
"This is yours?" Lena asks.
"It was my father's. He left it behind when he moved to Florida." Damien helps her onto the boat. "I haven't sailed in years. I thought... I thought it might be nice to do something that isn't about work. Or contracts. Or pretending."
Lena looks around. The boat rocks gently beneath her feet. The wind smells like salt and seaweed.
"I've never been sailing," she admits.
"Then I get to teach you something." Damien unties the dock lines, starts the small motor, and guides them away from the pier. "That's a first."
"What is?"
"No one has ever let me teach them anything. They always assume I'm too busy, or too impatient, or too..." He shrugs.
"Too intimidating?"
"That too."
Lena stands beside him at the helm, watching the city shrink behind them. The wind picks up, cool against her cheeks.
"I'm not intimidated by you," she says.
"You should be."
"I'm not." She bumps her shoulder against his. "You're just a person, Damien. A person with a lot of money and a lot of walls, but still just a person."
He looks at her. The wind ruffles his hair. His eyes are soft.
"You're the only person who has ever said that."
"Then everyone else was wrong."
---
Out on the water, away from the city, Damien unfurls the sails.
Lena watches him move – confident, practiced, his body remembering something his heart had forgotten. The sails catch the wind, and the boat surges forward, silent except for the rush of water against the hull.
"Come here," he says. "Put your hands on the tiller."
She does. His hands cover hers, guiding her.
"Feel that?" he asks. "The way the boat wants to turn? You have to counter it. Not fight it – just... guide it."
Lena nods. His chest is warm against her back. His breath is warm against her ear.
"You're good at this," she says.
"I used to be. It's been a long time."
"Why did you stop?"
He is quiet for a moment. The boat cuts through the water. A seal pops its head up nearby, watching them with dark, curious eyes.
"Because my father left," he says finally. "And this boat reminded me of him. So I docked it and walked away. Just like he did."
Lena turns in his arms to face him. The tiller bumps against her hip, but she doesn't care.
"You're not him," she says.
"I know."
"You're nothing like him."
"I know that too." He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "But knowing something and feeling something are different. I've spent thirty years knowing I'm not my father. I'm just starting to feel it."
Lena rises on her toes and kisses him. The boat rocks. The seal dives beneath the surface. The wind fills the sails.
And for a moment, there is no contract. No money. No fear.
Just the two of them, floating on the water, learning to trust.
---
They drop anchor in a small cove, eat sandwiches that the chef packed, and lie on the deck watching clouds.
"This is nice," Lena says.
"Nice?"
"Really nice." She turns her head to look at him. "I didn't think you knew how to do nice."
"I don't. I had to Google it."
She laughs – a real, full laugh that echoes across the water. "You Googled how to take someone on a date?"
"I Googled 'romantic things to do in Seattle.' The sailboat was the only suggestion that didn't involve the Space Needle or overpriced oysters."
"I hate oysters."
"Me too." He grins. "See? We're compatible."
Lena's heart flips. He is so different out here – relaxed, unguarded, almost playful. She wants to bottle this version of him and keep it forever.
"Damien," she says.
"Hmm?"
"What are we doing?"
He turns his head to look at her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... the contract says one year. But we're not following the contract anymore. We're sleeping in the same bed. We're kissing. We're going on dates." She swallows. "I told you I'm falling in love with you. That wasn't in the fine print."
Damien is quiet for a long moment. The clouds drift overhead. A seagull cries somewhere in the distance.
"I know," he says finally. "And I don't have an answer for you. I don't know what we're doing. I don't know what happens when the year ends. I don't know if I'm capable of giving you what you deserve."
"Then what do you know?"
He reaches for her hand. Brings it to his chest, over his heart.
"I know that my heart beats faster when you're around. I know that I sleep better when you're beside me. I know that I've been happier this past week than I've been in twenty years." His voice cracks. "I know that I'm terrified of losing you. And I know that I don't want to."
Lena's eyes fill with tears.
"That's a lot of knowing," she whispers.
"It's not enough."
"It's enough for now."
She leans over and kisses him. The boat rocks gently. His arms wrap around her, pulling her close.
And when they finally pull apart, his forehead rests against hers, and his eyes are bright.
"Lena," he says. "I—"
His phone rings.
The moment shatters.
Damien curses, reaches for his phone, glances at the screen. His face goes pale.
"What is it?" Lena asks.
"It's Marcus. He's been calling all day. I've been ignoring him." He answers the phone. "What?"
Lena watches his expression shift – surprise, then anger, then something that looks like fear.
"Where?" he says. "When? ... No, don't touch anything. I'll be there in an hour."
He hangs up. His hands are shaking.
"Damien. What's wrong?"
He looks at her, and the vulnerability from a moment ago is gone, replaced by something harder.
"Marcus found the contract," he says. "He broke into my office. He has a copy. And he's threatening to leak it to the press."
---
The sail back is fast and silent.
Damien handles the boat with sharp, efficient movements, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Lena sits in the cabin, her mind racing.
If the contract is leaked, everything falls apart. The engagement. The marriage. Her mother's treatment – would that be affected? Damien's company. His grandmother's health. Everything.
When they dock, a black SUV is waiting. Damien helps Lena off the boat, his hand gripping hers too tightly.
"I'm sorry," he says. "The date – I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin anything." She stops him, makes him look at her. "We'll handle this. Together."
"Together," he repeats. Like he's testing the word.
"Together."
They get in the car. The city blurs past the windows. Lena holds Damien's hand and watches the light fade from the sky, and she thinks about the word together and what it really means.
Not just sharing a space. Not just sharing a bed.
Facing the worst together.
She hopes he's ready for it.
Because she's not going anywhere.