Chapter 6: Tangles of Trust
The hospital's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as Elena Harper scrubbed her hands in the surgical suite, the scalding water a sharp contrast to the chill in her bones. It was Friday morning, two days after her dinner with Alexander at The Smith, and the memory of his earnest eyes lingered like a half-remembered dream. His promise—no more secrets, no more walls—had stirred something in her, a fragile hope she wasn't sure she could trust. The tabloid photo of him with Victoria Lang still haunted her, a grainy reminder that truth was slippery in the Weston world. Today, she had a full slate of surgeries, a chance to lose herself in the precision of her work, but Alexander's invitation for another meeting tonight—a coffee, he'd texted, somewhere quiet—loomed over her like a storm cloud.
She dried her hands, slipped on her gloves, and stepped into the operating room, where her patient, a forty-year-old teacher with a retinal tear, lay prepped under bright lights. Dr. Patel, her resident, stood ready, his eyes attentive behind his mask. "Ready, Dr. Harper?" he asked, handing her the laser tool.
"Always," she replied, her voice steady, her focus snapping into place. For the next hour, the world narrowed to the patient's eye, the delicate dance of light and tissue, mending what was broken. It was here, in the OR, that Elena felt most herself—not a Weston, not a wife, just a doctor saving sight. But as the surgery ended and she stepped back, peeling off her gloves, her thoughts drifted to Alexander's text: Coffee tonight, 7 p.m. You pick the place. I'm all in, Elena.
She hadn't replied yet. Part of her wanted to believe he was trying, that the man who'd sat across from her at The Smith, vulnerable and present, was real. But the other part—the part scarred by three years of silence and that damned photo—urged caution. She needed more than words, more than coffee dates. She needed proof.
By late afternoon, Elena was in her office, dictating notes when Marisol burst in, her scrubs wrinkled from a long shift, her dark curls escaping their bun. "Okay, Harper, spill," she demanded, flopping into a chair. "You've been dodging my texts since that dinner. What's the deal with you and Skyscraper? You giving him a shot or what?"
Elena sighed, setting her tablet down. "He wants to meet again tonight. Coffee, somewhere low-key. I haven't said yes yet."
Marisol's eyes narrowed, her nurse's intuition kicking in. "But you're thinking about it. I can see it in that crease between your brows. What's holding you back? The Victoria thing?"
"That, and…" Elena hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her desk where Alexander's note was still locked away. "I don't know if I can trust him, Marisol. He says all the right things now, but what happens when the merger's done, or his family pulls him back into their orbit? I've been burned before."
Marisol leaned forward, her voice softening. "You have. And you've got every right to guard your heart. But you're not some naive kid anymore, Elena. You're a badass surgeon who calls the shots. If you meet him, you set the terms. Make him work for it."
Elena managed a small smile. "You sound like my lawyer."
"Good. You need a pitbull in your corner." Marisol grinned, then sobered. "Look, I'm not Team Weston, but I saw that letter. He's trying, at least a little. Maybe give him a chance to show it—but keep your eyes open. And if he screws up, I know a guy who can hide bodies."
Elena laughed, the sound easing the knot in her chest. "Noted. I'm thinking Grounded Coffee in the West Village. Small, no Weston vibes. Neutral territory."
"Perfect," Marisol said, standing. "Text him, then text me after. I want details, chica."
Elena sent the text as she left the hospital, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across Manhattan's streets: Grounded Coffee, West Village, 7 p.m. Don't bring your phone. The last part was a test—she wanted his full attention, no distractions from Weston Enterprises or tabloid fodder. His reply came quickly: I'll be there. No phone, promise.
The West Village was quieter than the East Village, its cobblestone streets lined with brownstones and quirky shops. Grounded Coffee was a cozy hole-in-the-wall, its mismatched tables and chalkboard menu a far cry from the Carlyle's polish. Elena arrived early, claiming a corner table by a window overlooking a tree-lined street. She ordered a cappuccino, the foam heart a small comfort, and settled in, her leather jacket draped over the chair, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders.
At 6:59, Alexander walked in, true to his word. No phone in sight, just him—tall and striking in a navy sweater and jeans, his presence softening the room's edges. He spotted her, his smile tentative but warm, and slid into the chair across from her. "No phone," he said, holding up his empty hands. "Just me."
She nodded, her cappuccino cooling untouched. "Good start. So, what's this about, Alex? Another dinner, another promise?"
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes locked on hers. "Not a promise. A plan. I want to show you I'm serious, Elena. No more half-measures. I was thinking… a weekend away. Just us, somewhere quiet. No mergers, no family, no city."
Her breath caught, the idea both tempting and terrifying. A weekend with Alexander, away from the Weston machine, was something she'd dreamed of years ago, when their marriage was new and hope was still alive. But now? "That's a big ask," she said, her voice steady. "We're barely talking, and you want to play house for a weekend?"
"Not play," he said, his voice low, earnest. "I want time with you, Elena. Time to listen, to be the husband I should've been from the start. Pick a place—anywhere. The Catskills, Montauk, even some random cabin in Vermont. You name it, I'm there."
She studied him, searching for the catch. His eyes were open, unguarded, but the memory of the tabloid photo—him laughing with Victoria—flashed in her mind. "What about your merger? Your family? You can't just vanish for a weekend without them pulling you back."
"I can, and I will," he said, his tone firm. "I told my father I'm taking time off. He wasn't happy, but that's his problem. You're my priority now."
The words were a jolt, a crack in the armor she'd built around her heart. But trust was a fragile thing, and hers was still bruised. "And Victoria?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "You say it's business, but I need to know she's not part of this. Part of us."
He exhaled, his hands clenching briefly before relaxing. "She's not. I swear it, Elena. The merger's almost done—meetings are wrapping up next week. After that, she's out of the picture. I'll make sure of it."
Elena sipped her cappuccino, the foam gone flat, buying time to process. His words aligned with what he'd shown her—the emails, the explanations—but doubt lingered, a shadow cast by years of neglect. "Okay," she said finally. "A weekend. Montauk. There's a small inn I've always liked, away from the crowds. But this is on my terms, Alex. No Weston drama, no surprises."
"Done," he said, his smile breaking through like sunlight. "Montauk it is. When?"
"Next weekend," she said, her heart racing at the decision. "I'll handle the booking. You just show up—no entourage, no excuses."
He nodded, his eyes softening. "I'll be there. Thank you, Elena. For giving me this chance."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, but her tone was lighter, a flicker of hope sneaking through her defenses. "You've got a lot to prove."
The coffee date stretched into an hour, the conversation easier than she'd expected. They talked about small things—her favorite patient stories, his disastrous attempt at cooking during a business trip, the way the city felt different in autumn. It wasn't the grand romance of their early days, but it was real, a tentative step toward something new. When they parted ways, he didn't push for more, just walked her to the subway and said, "See you in Montauk."
Back at Marisol's, Elena found her friend in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a late-night stir-fry. "Well?" Marisol demanded, brandishing a knife like a detective. "How'd coffee go? He pull any CEO crap?"
Elena laughed, dropping her bag by the counter. "No CEO crap. He was… present. Asked for a weekend away, just us. I said yes—Montauk, next weekend."
Marisol's eyebrows shot up. "Montauk? Damn, girl, you're jumping in deep. You sure about this?"
"No," Elena admitted, stealing a slice of bell pepper. "But I need to know if he's serious. A weekend's a test—away from his world, just him and me. If he can't show up for that, I'm done."
Marisol nodded, her knife resuming its rhythm. "Fair. But I'm keeping my body-hiding guy on speed dial, just in case."
Elena grinned, the tension easing. "Deal."
That night, Elena lay awake in Marisol's guest room, the city's hum a faint backdrop. She'd booked the Montauk inn on her phone—an understated place with ocean views, far from the Weston's usual haunts. The decision felt reckless, a leap into waters she wasn't sure she could navigate. But it also felt right, a chance to see if Alexander could be the man he promised, not just the heir she'd married.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, a news alert from the same gossip site that had posted the Victoria photo. She hesitated, then opened it, bracing herself. The headline was innocuous—Weston Enterprises Announces New Development—but the article mentioned Alexander attending a charity gala tomorrow night, hosted by the Lang family. No mention of Victoria, but the implication was clear: their worlds were still entwined.
Elena set the phone down, her heart sinking. He hadn't mentioned a gala, hadn't warned her about another high-profile event with the Langs. Was this his idea of transparency? Or was she reading too much into it, letting the tabloids poison her hope?
She pulled the covers tighter, Alexander's note still under her pillow, its words a fragile anchor. Montauk was a week away, a chance to test his commitment. But tomorrow's gala loomed like a shadow, a reminder that the Weston world was never far behind. As sleep finally claimed her, Elena made a silent vow: she'd give him this chance, but she wouldn't lose herself to it. Not again.