Chapter 5 - Behind the Iron Gates of the Gold Coast
The penthouse apartment on Lake Shore Drive looked less like a home and more like an art gallery curated by someone who appreciated absolute control.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the churning, ink-black expanse of Lake Michigan. Minimalist Scandinavian furniture, dark oak built-ins, and abstract monochrome paintings dominated the space. There was no clutter. No chaos. Every single object had a designated place, untouched and undisturbed.
Rowan set my duffel bag down by the entryway.
"The guest suite is down the hall to the left," he said, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over the back of a leather armchair. Without the jacket, his broad shoulders and tall frame filled the room with an undeniable, quiet authority. "There are fresh towels, toiletries, and robes. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen."
I stood in the middle of the immaculate foyer, feeling small and out of place in my worn canvas coat and bruised cheek.
"I can't just stay here, Rowan," I whispered, though the thought of going back to Mozart Street made my stomach seize. "What will people at the office say? The gossip—"
"Let them talk," Rowan interrupted, walking over to the wet bar and pouring two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy crystal glass. He didn't offer me a drink; he just held the glass by the stem. "Ashby Capital is a private equity firm, Piper, not a high school cafeteria. If anyone has a problem with my logistics analyst taking temporary refuge in my building, they are welcome to bring it to my desk. None of them ever do."
He turned to face me, his dark eyes softening slightly as they landed on the dark purple bruise blooming across my cheekbone.
"Sit down, Piper."
I obeyed, sinking into the corner of a plush velvet sofa that felt like a cloud.
Rowan walked over, knelt down on one knee in front of me—a posture so entirely out of character for the ruthless corporate titan everyone feared that it stopped my breath—and gently placed a fresh, sterile ice pack wrapped in a linen towel against my face.
"He did that because he was losing control," Rowan said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling timbre that vibrated through the quiet room. "Men like Reinholdt build their entire identity on the fragility of the people around them. The moment you showed strength, the illusion shattered."
"I stayed for thirty months," I whispered, tears finally spilling over my lashes. "I let him chip away at everything. I thought... I thought if I just loved him enough, he would change."
"Love isn't a rehabilitation center," Rowan replied, his thumb brushing lightly against my uninjured jawline—a touch so tender and deliberate that it sent a shiver straight down my spine. "Some people don't want to be saved. They just want a audience."
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He stood up, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—something deep, complex, and fiercely protective.
"Get some sleep, Piper. Tomorrow, we dismantle his life."
