Chapter 8: Preparations and Promises
The drizzle had cleared by Monday morning, leaving New York City bathed in crisp October sunlight. Elena Harper stood at the window of her hospital office, the Hudson River glinting below, a rare moment of calm before her day began. Her schedule was packed—three consults, a laser surgery, and a department meeting—but her mind was already in Montauk, six days away. The weekend with Alexander loomed like a crossroads, a chance to rebuild or the final unraveling of their marriage. His promise in her office yesterday—No more secrets—echoed in her thoughts, but the sting of the gala photo, Victoria Lang's hand on his arm, lingered like a bruise.
Elena turned from the window, her white coat a familiar weight on her shoulders. She'd confirmed the Montauk booking last night: a two-night stay at The Seaside Inn, a quaint bed-and-breakfast with weathered cedar shingles and oceanfront views. It was far from the Weston's usual haunts—no penthouses, no private chefs, just creaky floors and the sound of waves. She'd chosen it deliberately, a test of Alexander's willingness to step out of his polished world and into hers.
Her phone buzzed on the desk, a text from Marisol: You packed for Montauk yet? Don't forget the sexy boots—I'm betting on some groveling. Elena smiled, shaking her head. Marisol's relentless optimism was a lifeline, but packing was the least of her worries. She needed to pack her courage, her clarity, to face a weekend that could change everything.
She typed a quick reply—Not yet. Boots maybe, groveling TBD. Lunch later?—and tucked the phone away as Dr. Patel knocked, his clipboard in hand. "Morning, Dr. Harper. Got a minute before rounds?"
"For you, always," she said, forcing her focus to the present. Work was her anchor, and she wouldn't let Alexander's shadow derail her.
The day passed in a blur of patient exams and surgical prep, but by noon, Elena was in the hospital cafeteria, sharing a table with Marisol. The space buzzed with staff, the air thick with the smell of burnt coffee and reheated pasta. Marisol, in her scrubs, was halfway through a turkey sandwich, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "So, Montauk," she said, leaning forward. "You got a game plan? Like, are you grilling him on the gala again, or going full rom-com with moonlit walks?"
Elena poked at her salad, a smile tugging at her lips. "No game plan, just… honesty. I need to see if he can be real with me, Marisol. No Weston armor, no excuses. If he can't, I'm done."
Marisol nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Solid. But you gotta bring the boots. Make him sweat a little."
Elena laughed, the sound lighter than she felt. "You're obsessed with those boots."
"They're power boots," Marisol said, grinning. "Anyway, what's the vibe at this inn? Cozy? Sexy? Haunted?"
"Cozy, I hope," Elena said, sipping her iced tea. "Small, maybe ten rooms, right on the beach. I want it to feel like us, not some Weston production."
Marisol raised an eyebrow. "Us? You sure there's still an 'us' to find?"
The question hit like a scalpel, precise and deep. Elena set her fork down, her gaze drifting to the cafeteria's window, where rain clouds were gathering again. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I owe it to myself to find out. If he shows up—really shows up—maybe there's something worth saving. If not…" She trailed off, the weight of walking away settling in her chest.
Marisol reached across the table, squeezing her hand. "You got this, Elena. Whatever happens, you're not alone."
By evening, Elena was back at Marisol's brownstone, sorting through her suitcase on the living room floor. She'd stopped by the penthouse that afternoon to grab clothes, a quick in-and-out while Alexander was at the office. The space had felt emptier without him, the marble and glass cold under her touch. She'd avoided their bedroom, grabbing essentials from the guest closet instead, but the sight of the divorce papers—still on the kitchen island, untouched—had stopped her cold. She hadn't looked to see if he'd signed them. Not yet.
Now, surrounded by Marisol's colorful rugs and mismatched pillows, Elena packed with purpose: jeans, sweaters, a scarf for the chilly Montauk nights. She hesitated over the black leather boots Marisol loved, then tossed them in, a small nod to her friend's insistence. A navy sundress went in too, simple but flattering, a quiet hope for moments that might feel like a new beginning.
Marisol lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone. "You see the latest?" she asked, her tone cautious. "No new photos, thank God, but the gossip blogs are still milking the gala. 'Weston and Lang: Power Couple or Power Play?'"
Elena's stomach twisted, but she kept packing, folding a sweater with deliberate care. "Let them talk. I'm not playing their game."
Marisol grinned, setting her phone down. "That's the spirit. You're gonna slay in Montauk. He won't know what hit him."
Elena managed a smile, but her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in Alexander's promises and the shadow of Victoria. She'd given him an ultimatum—one more secret, and I'm gone—but the gala had shaken her, a reminder that his world was a maze of half-truths. Montauk was her chance to see if he could step out of it, if he could be the man she'd fallen for all those years ago.
Tuesday brought a surprise: a delivery to the hospital, a small package addressed to Dr. Elena Harper. Inside was a handwritten card from Alexander, his sharp script unmistakable: For Montauk. No pressure, just a thought. —Alex. Nestled in tissue paper was a delicate silver necklace, a tiny compass pendant glinting under the office lights. The gesture was simple, not the extravagant Weston gifts she was used to—a diamond bracelet for their first anniversary, a designer bag she'd never used—but it hit her harder than she expected. A compass, a symbol of direction, of finding a way. Was he trying to say he was lost without her? Or was this another calculated move?
She slipped the necklace into her pocket, her fingers brushing the pendant, and texted him: Got the package. Nice touch. Still expecting you to show up in Montauk, not just send gifts. His reply was quick: I'll be there. Compass is just a start.
The rest of the week was a whirlwind of work and preparation. Elena threw herself into her surgeries, saving a teenager's vision in a complex procedure that left her drained but fulfilled. Marisol kept her grounded with late-night talks and bad action movies, but the closer Montauk got, the more Elena's nerves frayed. What if Alexander didn't show up as promised? What if he did, but it wasn't enough?
By Friday evening, she was packed and ready, her suitcase by Marisol's door. The drive to Montauk was three hours, and she'd insisted on going alone, needing the solitude to clear her head. Alexander had agreed to meet her at the inn Saturday morning, giving her a night to settle in. Marisol hugged her fiercely as she left, whispering, "You're a queen, Elena. Don't settle for less."
The Seaside Inn was everything Elena had hoped: a weathered shingle cottage perched on a bluff, the Atlantic stretching endlessly before it. She arrived just after dusk, the sky a bruised purple, the air salty and sharp. The innkeeper, a kind-faced woman named Clara, welcomed her with a mug of cider and a key to Room 7, a corner suite with a view of the waves. The room was small but charming—whitewashed walls, a quilted bed, a window seat piled with pillows. Elena dropped her suitcase, the compass necklace still in her pocket, and stepped onto the balcony, the ocean's roar drowning out her doubts.
She unpacked slowly, hanging the sundress, setting the boots by the door. The divorce papers were still in the penthouse, a weight she hadn't brought with her. This weekend was about answers, not endings. She slipped on the necklace, the compass cool against her skin, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back was stronger than she'd been a week ago, but still vulnerable, still hoping.
Her phone buzzed, a text from Alexander: Just finished at the office. Driving out tomorrow, 9 a.m. Can't wait to see you. No emojis, no flourish, just him. She replied: Good. Room 7. Bring coffee. A small test, a nod to their Grounded Coffee date.
She slept fitfully, the waves a restless lullaby, her dreams a jumble of Alexander's smile and Victoria's silver gown. Morning came too soon, sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains. Elena dressed carefully—jeans, a cream sweater, the compass necklace a quiet statement—and headed downstairs for breakfast. Clara served homemade scones and jam, her chatter about local hiking trails a welcome distraction.
At 9:15, a knock came at the inn's front door. Elena's heart leapt, her coffee mug pausing mid-air. Clara opened the door, and there he was—Alexander Weston, windblown and real, a to-go tray of coffee in one hand, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a gray sweater and jeans, his hair slightly damp from the sea air, his eyes finding hers with a warmth that made her breath catch.
"Morning," he said, stepping inside, the scent of coffee mingling with his cedarwood cologne. "Two lattes, as requested."
She stood, her hands smoothing her sweater, a nervous habit. "You're late," she said, but her tone was light, a tease.
"Fifteen minutes," he countered, his smile crooked. "Blame the barista. She was chatty."
Clara chuckled, taking the tray and ushering them to a small table by the window. "You two make yourselves at home. I'll bring some scones."
As they sat, the ocean stretching beyond the glass, Elena felt the weight of the moment. This was it—Montauk, their chance to start over or end it. Alexander's eyes held hers, steady and open, and for the first time in years, she saw no trace of the Weston armor.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice soft, a question bigger than the coffee between them.
She nodded, the compass pendant heavy against her chest. "Ready."