Chapter 5 : The Games We Play

LENA'S POV

The orchestra swelled, strings weaving through champagne flutes and murmured deals. Adrian’s hand settled at the small of my back, his grip firm—a remnant of our waltz rehearsals a lifetime ago. His cologne, crisp and citrus-sharp, clashed with the memory of Kian’s cedar-and-salt scent.

“Still leading with your chin, I see,” Adrian murmured, twirling me effortlessly. His smile was all polished edges now, suited for boardrooms instead of ballrooms.

I laughed, too bright, arching into the spin. “And you’re still counting beats under your breath.” The lie fizzed between us. Every step was precision, every dip calibrated to catch emerald cufflinks glinting across the room. Kian hadn’t so much as flickered a glance toward the dancefloor. He leaned into some silver-haired titan’s anecdote, fingers loose around his untouched Scotch.

Adrian’s thumb brushed my hip. “He’s watching.

“He’s not.” “Check again.”

Another rotation. My garnet silk gown hissed against his tailored wool. Kian’s gaze remained anchored to the investor’s Rolex, jawline taut as a blade. The woman beside him laughed, her pearls grazing his sleeve.

“You’ve upgraded,” I said, louder than necessary. Adrian’s new empire—imports or mergers or whatever he’d traded pirouettes for—earned an approving hum. His palm burned through my dress.

Kian shifted. My pulse tripped.

But he was merely reaching for a passed hors d’oeuvre, poplar-smoked duck tartlet balanced on linen. He bit in, slow, eyes sliding past my shoulder.

“Christ, Lena.” Adrian’s chuckle vibrated against my temple. “You’re trembling.”

The violins hummed melodically . I pressed closer, laughter dripping honeyed venom. “Remember that lift from Swan Lake? The one you dropped me during—”

“You’re not wearing ballet slippers.”

“Do it.”

His hesitation lasted half a beat. Then I was airborne, back arched, limbs arranged into perfect tragedy. The chandelier bled prismatic light. For one suspended moment, I hung in the gasps and claps, willing those damned emerald eyes to finally see.

Kian applauded. Politely. With the rest. Adrian set me down as the music died. My soles struck marble, reality rushing back. Across the room, Kian nodded at something the pearl-clad woman said, his wedding finger still bare, still taunting.

“Another round?” Adrian’s tie was crooked. I stepped back, sweat cooling between my shoulder blades. “I need air.”

The terrace doors swallowed me whole. October wind clawed through my up do, scattering pins. Behind the glass, Kian’s reflection finally turned toward the empty dancefloor. Or maybe it was a trick of the light.

I texted my driver, my thumbs jabbing the robust glass.

******************

The clock on my bedside table glowed 3:12 AM, its cold blue numbers the only source of light in my otherwise dark room. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, unable to escape the whirlwind of thoughts consuming me. The silk sheets beneath me felt stifling, too soft, too suffocating.

Kian Davenport. The love of my life whom for some reason, I keep trying to distract my heart from.

I clenched my fists, my heart hammering in my chest as I replayed our brief encounter at the gala. The way he stood there, looking like a ghost of my past. The sharp edge in his voice as he denied knowing me. The way his eyes held something unreadable—something deliberately detached.

More of, my little display to make him jealous—jealous of my singleness.

Singleness of being alive?

WHAT I’M I DOING WITH MY LIFE?

It made no sense. We were inseparable.

Five years. Five years of believing he was gone forever, that he had drowned, that he had been stolen from me by fate itself. And yet, last night, he stood mere feet away from me, flesh and bone, breathing the same air, existing in the same world as if none of it had ever happened.

But what tore at me the most wasn’t just his presence—it was his indifference.

The way he looked at me with nothing more than polite detachment, like I was just another socialite in a room full of them. Like I wasn’t the woman who once knew him better than anyone else.

I turned on my side, gripping my pillow as if it could ground me.

Memories flooded my mind, unbidden and relentless.

Kian, under the warm glow of the setting sun, his hand laced with mine as we walked along the Whitmore estate gardens, whispering stolen dreams of a future together.

Kian, laughing as he chased me barefoot through the summer rain, his hair soaked, his smile unguarded, free.

Kian, leaning against my car with that cocky smirk, arms crossed, teasing me about how I’d never beat him at chess—only to eat his words when I finally did.

Kian, pulling me close in the dead of night, his voice a quiet promise against my skin: "No matter what happens, Lena, I will always find my way back to you."

My breath hitched.

Was it all a lie? Had he ever meant those words?

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but sleep refused to come.

I remained motionless, consuming the night with my consciousness.

************************

I woke up feeling dazed, shaky from the buzzing headache rummaging my head.

Laying on my bed, I read the clock’s digits readings. It was 5:44 AM.

Fuck. It has only been two hours.

I brought out my iPad and began taking notes of the business conclusions of the previous day.

Outstretched on my bed, I began working on the day’s meeting summarizes.

By the time the first rays of dawn began creeping through the curtains, I had made a decision.

I needed something to anchor myself—something real, something tangible.

I needed control.

And I knew exactly where to find it.

************

The indoor mini-golf course was one of the many unnecessary extravagances of the Whitmore estate. A perfectly controlled environment for a game meant to be played outdoors, just like everything else in my family’s world—designed, manipulated, controlled.

As I stepped inside, the soft glow of overhead lights illuminated the pristine artificial green, the carefully constructed obstacles, the polished clubs lined up neatly against the wall. And there, at the far end of the course, was my mother.

Dressed in an all-white golf ensemble, her stance was poised, precise. She was mid-swing, eyes locked on the ball as she struck it effortlessly, watching as it rolled into the hole with the same measured ease she applied to every aspect of her life.

She didn’t acknowledge my presence. She never did unless it suited her.

I stepped onto the green, picking up a club.

“I assume you’re here for a reason,” she said finally, lining up her next shot.

I twirled the club in my hands. “Maybe I just wanted to play.”

She let out a small breath—something close to amusement, though she’d never admit it. “You always hated golf.”

“Hate is a strong word,” I mused, placing my ball down. “Maybe I’ve learned to appreciate the game.”

She didn’t respond. She simply took her shot, sending the ball rolling into the next hole with perfect precision.

I lined up beside her, mimicking her stance.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” I said, adjusting my grip.

“What is?”

“How people disappear for years, and then one day, they’re just… there.” I swung my club, watching as the ball rolled forward, only to veer slightly off course at the last moment. I sighed. “Like they were never really gone.”

My mother’s hand flexed slightly around her club. A subtle tell.

She took her shot, her voice measured. “Nothing stays gone forever. Everything has a way of returning, in one form or another.”

I hummed, walking to where my ball had landed. “And when something returns, what do you do? Do you treat it like a threat? Or an opportunity?”

Her expression remained unreadable. “That depends on what it has become.”

I smirked, taking my turn again. The ball rolled cleanly into the hole.

As we moved to the next hole, I decided to push further.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the future,” I said, casually studying the course. “About where I want to invest my time.”

Mother took her shot. “A woman in your position doesn’t have the luxury of idle time.”

“Exactly,” I said smoothly. “Which is why I’ve decided to be intentional about where I place my focus. Some things—some people—aren’t worth the energy of chasing.”

Her gaze flickered to me, sharp, assessing. “Are you referring to something specific?”

I shrugged, aiming for my shot. “Just an observation. Some doors should stay closed.”

She tilted her head, watching as my ball sank effortlessly into the hole.

“You always did struggle with leaving things behind,” she said.

I met her gaze, a slow smile forming. “Maybe I’m finally learning.”

The game continued, an unspoken tension hanging between us, but neither of us broke our carefully crafted facades.

By the time we reached the final hole, the score was tied. One last shot would determine the winner.

Mother took her position first, lining up her club with the ball. She exhaled, steady, precise—everything about her designed for control.

She swung.

The ball rolled forward, its trajectory flawless. But just before it reached the hole, it hit the slightest uneven edge, throwing it just off course.

A miss.

She went still, her lips pressing into a thin line.

I stepped forward, lining up my own shot.

A breath in. A breath out.

I struck the ball.

It rolled smoothly, cleanly—straight into the hole.

A perfect win.

I lowered my club, stepping back as silence settled between us.

I knew she wouldn’t congratulate me. That wasn’t her style. Instead, she studied me, searching for something beneath my indifference.

I offered her nothing.

No gloating. No excitement. Just calm, unwavering certainty.

I set the club down and turned to leave.

“Lena.” Her voice stopped me just as I reached the door.

I glanced back.

She held my gaze, unreadable as ever. “You’re changing.”

I gave a small, knowing smile. “A player who only follows the rules never changes the game.”

And with that, I walked away, leaving her alone to process the meaning behind my words.

Kian’s mine.

Only mine.