Chapter Four
New York was supposed to be a layover.
Three days, maybe four, and then back to Athens where everything was familiar and staff anticipated needs before they were spoken and Leonidas never had to wonder where his coffee came from or how it arrived at precisely the right temperature every morning.
But mediation, as it turned out, had requirements.
“Cohabitation,” Adriano had drawled, sliding a document across the conference table. “Minimum two weeks. No household staff. No assistants. No drivers. The goal is to strip away external support systems and force genuine interaction.”
Leonidas had stared at him. “You cannot be serious. I have a company to run—”
“Which you can do from your laptop, like every other executive in the twenty-first century.”
And so here they were.
The Manhattan penthouse had been secured within hours—a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, all clean lines and neutral tones and a kitchen that probably cost more than most people’s houses.
A kitchen that his wife was currently destroying.
Leonidas stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Lexy wage war against a stovetop. She wore one of his old Oxford shirts over leggings—when had she taken that?—and her dark hair was escaping its braid in wispy tendrils around her face.
The smoke alarm had already gone off twice, and when he saw her grab the handle of a pan without a mitt—
Unbelievable.
Leonidas was already across the kitchen as his wife cried out in pain, the pan clattering against the burner and sending something blackened and unidentifiable skittering across the surface.
Lexy felt like the biggest idiot in the world as her husband—no, wait, stop thinking about him as your husband, Lex!—took her wrist and turned her palm upward to examine the damage.
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m fine, it’s just—”
“You burned yourself,” Leonidas said grimly. “There’s a blister forming.”
“It’s fine, rea—”
“Lexina.”
That softly warning tone of his had always been effective in making her realize when she was acting like a child...and it was still as effective now, and so she stopped trying to tug her hand out of his hold.
As Leonidas inspected his wife’s hand, a part of him was also noticing things that he never used to notice before. Like how small and delicate her hand was in his...and how his chest tightened at seeing her hand marred by a painful burn.
He reluctantly let her hand go, saying, “There’s aloe in the bathroom—”
“I know. I...I can do it myself, thank you.”
Leonidas watched his wife run away as if trying to escape a madman. How was it that they had been married for eight years, and only now did he realize how good she was at being...evasive?
****
The first three days were an exercise in controlled agony.
For both of them—though neither would admit it.
Leonidas watched his wife attempt to hail a cab on Fifth Avenue, standing politely on the sidewalk with her hand raised like she was asking a question in class. Three cabs sailed past without slowing.
He said nothing, even though every instinct screamed at him to step in.
She tried stepping closer to the curb. A fourth cab ignored her.
His jaw ached from clenching.
On her fifth attempt, she accidentally flagged down an unmarked black car, and Leonidas finally broke, striding forward to pull her back just as the window rolled down to reveal a confused hedge fund manager who was very much not a taxi driver.
“Perhaps,” Leonidas managed to say without gritting his teeth too noticeably, “you might consider the apps that exist for this purpose.”
Lexy’s cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I wanted to do it properly.”
“You nearly got into a stranger’s vehicle.”
“He looked official.”
“He was wearing a Patek Philippe.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
And even though she was still embarrassed, Lexy found herself fighting back a smile at the way Leon pinched the bridge of his nose. He always did that when she exasperated him, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like before. Like nothing had changed between them.
But everything had changed.
And she couldn’t let herself forget that.
The coffee situation was even worse.
The first morning, she’d presented him with a cup that she was genuinely proud of, only to watch his face go carefully blank after the first sip.
“You hate it,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
“Your eye is twitching.”
“I have a condition.”
“You don’t have a condition.” But she was almost smiling again, and that was dangerous, so she made herself look away. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”
She did not do better tomorrow.
The second morning’s coffee was so strong that Leonidas had to actively prevent his face from puckering. He drank it anyway, and Lexy watched him with a mixture of mortification and something warmer that she refused to name.
“You really don’t have to drink it,” she said softly.
“It’s fine.”
“Leon—”
“I said it’s fine.”
By the third morning, she’d somehow produced something that was both burnt AND watery, a feat he hadn’t known was chemically possible. But when she handed him the cup with such hopeful, anxious eyes, he found himself drinking every drop.
“Better,” he lied.
The smile she gave him was small and uncertain, and it made his chest ache in ways he didn’t want to examine too closely.
By day five, the coffee was merely mediocre, and Leonidas had never been more absurdly proud of a cup of mediocre coffee in his life.
But if watching her domestic struggles made him want to wrap her in cotton wool and never let her lift a finger again, his own shortcomings were far more devastating to discover.
“Mrs. Patterson,” Lexy said on day four, frowning at her phone. “Your driver’s wife. She just had surgery.”
Leonidas looked up from his laptop. “What?”
“Gallbladder. She’s been in the hospital since Tuesday.” Lexy was already typing. “I’m sending flowers from both of us.”
“I didn’t know Patterson was married.”
His wife’s fingers stilled on the screen, and when she looked at him, there was something sad in her expression. Not judgmental. Just...sad.
“Leon, he’s worked for you for eleven years.”
“I knew that.”
“His daughter just got accepted to Columbia. He cried in the car when the letter came. You were on a call and didn’t notice.”
Leonidas said nothing.
“And Maria—your housekeeper in Athens—her mother is sick. She’s been flying back to the Philippines every other month. You approved the time off, but do you know why she needed it?”
He didn’t.
“What about birthdays?” Lexy continued, her voice gentle rather than accusing. “Do you know when Mrs. Sanchez’s birthday is?”
“That’s what assistants are for.”
“I’m not your assistant, Leon.” She looked down at her phone again, her dark hair falling forward to hide her expression. “I’ve been sending cards on your behalf for eight years. I just...thought you should know.”
The words weren’t meant to wound him.
That was somehow worse.
Because she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t trying to make him feel guilty. She was simply telling him the truth—that she was one of the many people in his life he had overlooked.
****
The mediation questions arrived on day six.
A sealed envelope slipped under their door each morning, containing cards printed with prompts they were required to discuss over dinner. Adriano had explained it was part of the process. Structured communication. Guided intimacy.
Leonidas thought it was torture dressed up in therapeutic language.
But Lexy approached each question with the same earnest determination she brought to her failed cooking attempts, and he found himself unable to do anything less than match her effort.
Day Six: What does your partner do that makes you feel cared for?
He’d had answers. Specific ones. The way she always seemed to know when he’d had a difficult call and would appear with tea he hadn’t asked for.
The way she remembered every preference he’d ever mentioned in passing.
The way she still looked at him with those soft, serious eyes even after everything he’d put her through.
But when he’d asked her the same question, she’d gone quiet for a long moment before answering.
“You...handle things,” she said finally. “Logistics. I never have to worry about logistics.”
Logistics.
Eight years of marriage, and she felt cared for because he managed her calendar.
“Is that all?” he heard himself ask.
Lexy’s gaze dropped to her plate. “You make sure I eat. You charge my phone when I forget. You...you always make sure I’m safe.”
It should have made him feel better.
It didn’t.
Because he was starting to realize that all the ways he’d cared for her were practical. Logistical. The kind of care you’d give a valued employee or a distant relative.
Not a wife.
Never the way you’d care for a wife you actually loved.
Day Seven: What do you wish your partner understood about you?
Neither of them answered that one.
They’d sat in silence until the pasta grew cold, and then Lexy had excused herself to do the dishes with a small, apologetic smile that made Leonidas want to put his fist through a wall.
Not at her.
At himself.
Day Eight: Describe your relationship history before marriage.
The card sat between them on the dinner table like an unexploded grenade.
Lexy had cooked again—something involving chicken that was actually almost good this time—and they’d made it through most of the meal with careful small talk. The weather. A book she was reading. An investment opportunity he was considering.
Safe topics.
Nothing that made her pulse race or her palms sweat or her heart ache with wanting things she couldn’t have.
But now the card was staring at them, and Lexy could feel heat rising to her cheeks before anyone had even spoken.
“You first,” she said.
“Ladies first.”
“You’re older.”
“That is not how this works.”
She picked up her wine glass. Set it down. Picked it up again. Took a long sip for courage.