Chapter 9: Waves and Wounds
The Seaside Inn's dining room was bathed in morning light, the Atlantic's waves crashing beyond the windows as Elena Harper sat across from Alexander Weston, a steaming latte between her hands. The Montauk air was crisp, carrying the salt and promise of a new beginning, but Elena's heart was a tangle of hope and caution. Alexander's arrival, coffee in hand and a tentative smile on his face, had softened her defenses, but the memory of the gala photo—Victoria Lang's hand on his arm—lingered like a ghost. This weekend was a test, a chance to see if he could be the husband she'd once dreamed of, or if their marriage was beyond saving.
Alexander leaned back in his chair, his gray sweater stretching across his shoulders, his stormy eyes softer in the coastal light. "This place is perfect," he said, glancing at the ocean. "No city noise, no paparazzi. Just us."
Elena sipped her latte, the foam warm against her lips. "That was the point," she said, her voice steady but laced with challenge. "No Weston world, no distractions. Just you and me, figuring out if there's anything left to save."
He nodded, his expression serious, the coffee tray between them a small bridge. "I'm here, Elena. All in, like I promised. Where do you want to start?"
She set her mug down, her fingers brushing the compass necklace he'd sent, its weight a reminder of his gesture. "With the truth," she said. "The gala, Alex. You explained the merger, but you didn't tell me you'd be there, posing with Victoria for the cameras. I had to find out from a gossip site. If we're doing this, I need to know why you keep leaving me in the dark."
He winced, his hands tightening around his coffee cup. "You're right. I should've told you about the gala. It was a last-minute decision—my father insisted I show up to seal the deal with Lang Industries. I didn't want to drag you into it, not when we're already on shaky ground. But that was a mistake. I see that now."
Her chest tightened, his words echoing the apologies he'd offered before. "You keep saying you're protecting me, but it feels like you're hiding me. Like I'm not part of your life, just… an accessory."
"That's not true," he said, leaning forward, his voice low and urgent. "You're the most real part of my life, Elena. The Westons, the company, the galas—that's all noise. You're the signal. I've been too caught up in the noise to show it, but I'm trying now."
The sincerity in his eyes was disarming, but she held her ground. "Trying isn't enough, Alex. I need you to be my partner, not my protector. That means telling me things, even the messy stuff. No more surprises."
He nodded, his jaw tight. "No more surprises. Starting now, you're in the loop—every meeting, every decision that affects us. I swear it."
She studied him, searching for the lie, but his gaze was steady, unguarded. The inn's dining room felt smaller, the ocean's roar a backdrop to their fragile truce. Clara, the innkeeper, bustled over with a plate of scones, her smile warm. "Fresh from the oven," she said, setting them down. "You two enjoy the day—it's perfect for a walk on the beach."
Elena thanked her, the interruption giving her a moment to breathe. "A walk sounds good," she said to Alexander, a test of his willingness to keep things simple. "No plans, no agenda. Just us."
He smiled, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Lead the way."
The Montauk beach stretched before the inn, a crescent of sand framed by dunes and sea grass. Elena and Alexander walked side by side, their shoes left at the inn's steps, the cold sand gritty under their feet. She wore a cream sweater and jeans, the compass necklace glinting at her throat, while he'd shed his sweater for a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms tanned from summer sailing. The waves crashed rhythmically, a steady pulse that matched the cautious beat of their conversation.
They talked about small things at first—her love for Montauk's quiet winters, his memory of a childhood trip to these shores with his parents before the Weston empire consumed them. But as the beach curved toward a rocky outcrop, the conversation deepened, pulled by the tide of their shared history.
"Do you remember our first summer here?" Elena asked, pausing to pick up a smooth pebble, its surface cool against her palm. "I was sixteen, you were twenty. You taught me how to sail, and I capsized us into the bay."
He laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "You were fearless, even when you were flailing in the water. I knew then you were different—stronger than anyone I'd met."
Her heart ached at the memory, at the boy he'd been before the weight of his name took over. "I thought you were invincible back then," she said, tossing the pebble into the waves. "The golden Weston heir, untouchable. I fell for you that summer, Alex. Hard. And I kept falling, even when you stopped seeing me."
He stopped walking, his boots sinking into the sand, his eyes shadowed. "I never stopped seeing you, Elena. I just… got lost. The company, my father's expectations, the constant pressure to be perfect—it pulled me away from you. I thought I was doing right by you, keeping you out of it. But I was wrong."
She turned to face him, the wind tugging at her hair. "You were. And it hurt, Alex. Every time you shut me out, every time I saw you with Victoria or read some headline, it felt like I was losing you all over again."
He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking, his voice raw. "I'm here now. I'm not perfect, Elena, but I'm yours. If you'll still have me."
The words were a knife, cutting through her defenses. She wanted to reach for him, to close the gap, but the gala photo flashed in her mind, a reminder of the trust they still needed to rebuild. "I want to believe you," she said, her voice trembling. "But I need time. And I need you to keep showing up, not just this weekend, but every day."
He nodded, his hand twitching as if to reach for her, then falling back. "I will. Whatever it takes."
They walked on, the conversation lighter but laced with unspoken promises. He pointed out a gull diving for fish, she teased him about his terrible sense of direction, and for a moment, they were just Elena and Alex, not the fractured couple they'd become. But the weight of their history lingered, a current beneath the surface.
Back at the inn, they shared a late lunch on the patio, Clara's homemade clam chowder warming them against the autumn chill. The afternoon stretched before them, and Elena suggested a hike to the Montauk Point Lighthouse, a few miles away. Alexander agreed, his enthusiasm a small victory, a sign he was willing to follow her lead.
The trail wound through dunes and scrubland, the lighthouse a distant beacon against the graying sky. They walked in companionable silence, the crunch of gravel underfoot blending with the distant waves. Halfway there, Alexander stopped, his breath visible in the cool air. "Elena," he said, his voice hesitant. "There's something I need to tell you. About the merger, the gala—everything."
Her heart skipped, dread pooling in her stomach. "What is it?"
He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes meeting hers. "Victoria pushed for more than a business deal. Not romantically—she knows I'm married, knows I'm committed to you. But she wanted a stake in Weston Enterprises, a board seat, something my father shut down. That's why the gala was tense, why I was there. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you worrying about her overstepping. But I should've. No more secrets, right?"
Elena's breath caught, the confession both a relief and a new weight. "She wanted a board seat? And you didn't think that was worth mentioning?"
"I thought it was handled," he said, his voice tight. "My father killed the idea, and the merger's done. But you're right—I should've told you. I'm telling you now."
She nodded, processing. It wasn't a betrayal, not like the photos suggested, but it was another reminder of his instinct to shield her, to decide what she could handle. "Thank you for telling me," she said finally. "But next time, don't wait. I can handle the truth, Alex. I need to."
He reached for her hand this time, his fingers warm against her cold ones. "I hear you. No more waiting."
She let his hand linger for a moment, the contact a spark in the chilly air, then pulled away gently. "Let's keep walking," she said, her voice softer. "We're almost there."
The lighthouse was stark against the sky, its red-and-white stripes a beacon of endurance. They climbed to the observation deck, the wind whipping around them, the ocean stretching endlessly below. Elena leaned against the railing, her hair dancing in the breeze, the compass necklace glinting at her throat. Alexander stood beside her, close but not crowding, his presence a quiet anchor.
"This place," she said, her voice almost lost in the wind. "It's where I came after my parents died. Before the Westons took me in. I'd sit here, watching the waves, trying to make sense of it all."
He turned to her, his eyes soft. "I didn't know that."
"There's a lot you don't know," she said, not unkindly. "But I want you to. If we're going to do this, I need you to know me, Alex. Not the doctor, not the adopted daughter. Me."
He nodded, his hand brushing hers on the railing. "I want that too. Tell me, Elena. All of it."
They stayed until the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. She told him about her childhood, the grief she'd buried, the dreams she'd held onto through med school. He listened, really listened, asking questions, sharing his own stories—of pressure from his father, of losing himself in the Weston machine. It wasn't a fix, not yet, but it was a start, a crack in the walls between them.
Back at the inn, they shared a quiet dinner in the dining room, Clara's seafood risotto a warm end to the day. The conversation flowed easier now, laced with laughter and memories, but Elena's heart remained guarded. As they said goodnight—her to Room 7, him to a room down the hall—she felt the weight of the weekend settling in. Tomorrow was another day, another chance to see if Alexander could keep his promises.
In her room, she stood on the balcony, the ocean a dark expanse under the stars. The compass necklace hung heavy, a symbol of direction she wasn't sure she'd found. Her phone buzzed, a text from Marisol: How's Montauk? He behaving? Elena smiled, typing back: So far, so good. Talk tomorrow. But as she slipped into bed, the waves a restless lullaby, she knew the real test was still ahead. Alexander was trying, but trust was a tide that could pull them together—or sweep them apart.