Chapter 10: Tides of Truth
The Montauk sunrise painted the sky in soft pinks and golds, the ocean a restless mirror reflecting the dawn. Elena Harper stood on the balcony of Room 7 at The Seaside Inn, a mug of tea warming her hands, the compass necklace cool against her skin. The air was sharp with salt and promise, but her heart was a storm of hope and hesitation. Yesterday's walk with Alexander—his confession about Victoria's ambitions, his quiet listening at the lighthouse—had cracked open a door she'd thought long closed. But trust was a fragile thing, and the gala's shadow, the years of silence, still lingered. Today, their second day in Montauk, was another test: could he keep showing up, not just as the man she'd loved, but as the partner she needed?
Inside, the inn was quiet, the other guests still asleep or out exploring. Elena dressed for the day—jeans, a navy sweater, the leather boots Marisol had insisted on—and headed downstairs, where Clara, the innkeeper, was setting out a breakfast spread of fresh muffins and fruit. The scent of coffee drew her to the dining room, where Alexander was already seated, his hair tousled from sleep, a plain white T-shirt replacing yesterday's flannel. He looked up as she entered, his smile tentative but warm, a to-go cup of coffee waiting at her place.
"Morning," he said, standing to pull out her chair, a small gesture that felt both foreign and familiar. "Latte, extra foam, just how you like it."
She raised an eyebrow, settling into the chair. "You're getting good at this coffee thing. Careful, I might expect it every day."
His smile widened, a spark of the old Alex—the one who'd teased her mercilessly in their teens—flashing through. "Don't tempt me. I'm already planning a barista course."
Elena laughed, the sound easing the tension in her chest. She sipped the latte, the warmth grounding her, and studied him across the table. He looked different here, away from the city's glare—no suit, no Weston armor, just a man trying to bridge the gap between them. But the gala photo, Victoria's hand on his arm, still flickered in her mind, a reminder to keep her guard up.
"So," she said, breaking a muffin in half, "what's the plan today? Or are we just winging it?"
He leaned back, his eyes catching the morning light. "I was thinking a drive along the coast, maybe stop at a few spots you like. No schedule, no pressure. Just… us."
The simplicity of it disarmed her, a stark contrast to the Weston's usual orchestrated outings. "Sounds good," she said, her voice softer. "There's a cove I used to visit as a kid, not far from here. Quiet, no tourists. We could start there."
"Lead the way," he said, his tone earnest, his gaze steady.
The drive to the cove was short, the inn's rental car—a weathered Jeep—bumping along Montauk's winding roads. Elena navigated, pointing out landmarks: a diner she'd loved as a teen, a bluff where she'd watched storms roll in. Alexander drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his focus split between the road and her stories. The air between them felt lighter, but Elena knew it was fragile, a truce that could break with one misstep.
The cove was tucked behind a dune, a crescent of sand framed by rocks, the waves gentler here than at the open beach. They parked and walked down a narrow path, the sea grass brushing their legs. Elena kicked off her boots, the sand cold under her bare feet, and Alexander followed suit, his socks stuffed into his sneakers. The cove was empty, just as she'd hoped, the only sounds the waves and the distant cry of a gull.
"This place," she said, stopping at the water's edge, "was my escape after my parents died. I'd come here with a book, or just to think. It felt like the one place I could breathe."
Alexander stood beside her, his hands in his pockets, the wind ruffling his hair. "I wish I'd known you needed that," he said quietly. "I was so caught up in my own world back then—college, the company. I should've been there for you."
She turned to him, the compass necklace glinting in the sun. "You were there, Alex. You and your family gave me a home, a future. But somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing me. Not the adopted kid, not the doctor, but me."
He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking, his eyes raw. "I see you now, Elena. I know I've got years to make up for, but I'm trying. Tell me how to do this right."
Her throat tightened, his vulnerability a tide pulling her in. "Keep talking to me," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "No filters, no Weston spin. Tell me what's in your head, what scares you, what you want. And don't hide things, even if you think they'll hurt me."
He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. "Okay. No filters. Starting now." He took a breath, as if steeling himself, then sat on a nearby rock, gesturing for her to join him. She did, the stone cool through her jeans, the waves a rhythmic backdrop.
"I'm scared," he said, his voice low, almost lost in the wind. "Scared of failing you again. The company, my father—it's a machine, Elena. It's been my life since I was a kid, and I let it swallow me. I thought I could keep you separate, keep you safe from it. But all I did was push you away."
Her heart ached, not just for his words but for the boy she'd known, the one who'd carried the weight of his name even then. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked. "I could've helped, Alex. We could've faced it together."
He looked out at the ocean, his jaw tight. "Because I didn't know how. My father taught me to handle things, to be the one in control. Showing weakness wasn't an option. But with you…" He turned to her, his eyes softening. "You make me want to be different. Better."
The words were a spark, igniting something she'd buried deep. She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his, a tentative bridge. "Then be better," she said, her voice fierce. "Not for your father, not for the company. For us."
He squeezed her hand, his touch warm, grounding. "I will. I'm not perfect, Elena, but I'm yours. If you'll let me be."
For a moment, they sat in silence, hands clasped, the waves filling the space between words. It wasn't a fix, not yet, but it was a step, a moment of raw honesty that felt like a new foundation.
The rest of the day unfolded slowly, a tapestry of small moments. They drove to a roadside stand for lobster rolls, the kind Elena had loved as a kid, and ate them on a picnic bench, laughing when sauce dripped on Alexander's shirt. They wandered through Montauk's tiny village, poking into bookstores and antique shops, his arm brushing hers as they debated the merits of a vintage lamp. It was ordinary, unglamorous, and exactly what she'd craved—a glimpse of a life they could've had, if they'd fought for it sooner.
By evening, they were back at the inn, sharing a bottle of wine on the patio, the stars bright above the ocean. Clara had lit a fire pit, its warmth chasing away the autumn chill. Elena curled into a wicker chair, her legs tucked under her, the compass necklace catching the firelight. Alexander sat across from her, his wineglass untouched, his eyes on her like she was the only thing in the world.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
He smiled, a soft, unguarded curve of his lips. "That I could get used to this. You, me, no city, no noise. Just… us."
Her heart fluttered, but she kept her tone light. "Careful, Weston. You're sounding like a romantic."
"Maybe I am," he said, leaning forward, his voice low. "Maybe I've been one all along, just too stupid to show it."
She laughed, the sound mingling with the crackle of the fire. "Prove it, then. What's the most romantic thing you've ever done?"
He thought for a moment, his eyes distant, then grinned. "Summer, when you were seventeen. I snuck you out of the Hamptons house to watch the meteor shower. We lay on the beach, freezing, and you kept naming constellations wrong just to mess with me."
She smiled, the memory flooding back—his jacket over her shoulders, the stars a endless canvas. "You were so annoyed," she said, teasing. "Kept correcting me like it was your job."
"I loved it," he said softly. "I loved you, even then. I just didn't know how to say it."
The confession hung between them, heavy with years unspoken. Elena's breath caught, her wineglass trembling in her hand. "You loved me," she repeated, testing the words. "And now?"
"Now?" He stood, crossing to her chair, kneeling so they were eye-level. "Now I love you more than I know how to handle. And I'm done hiding it."
Her heart pounded, the firelight dancing in his eyes. She wanted to lean into him, to let the moment sweep her away, but the weight of their past held her back. "Alex," she said, her voice trembling, "I want to believe you. But love isn't enough. I need trust, partnership. I need you to show up, every day, not just this weekend."
He nodded, his hand reaching for hers, stopping just short. "I know. And I will. Let me prove it, Elena. Not just here, but back in the city, in our life. Whatever it takes."
She held his gaze, searching for the lie, but all she saw was a man laid bare, his heart in his hands. "Okay," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "Show me."
He smiled, a promise in itself, and stood, offering his hand. "Walk with me? One last time before we head back tomorrow."
She took his hand, the contact electric, and they walked to the beach, the stars above mirroring the ones they'd watched years ago. The waves whispered secrets, and for the first time in years, Elena felt like they might be enough.
Back in her room, Elena stood on the balcony, the ocean a dark expanse under the stars. The compass necklace felt heavier now, a symbol of the direction they were trying to find. Her phone buzzed, a text from Marisol: How's Montauk? He still behaving? Elena smiled, typing back: Better than expected. Talk tomorrow. She didn't mention the confession, the hand-holding, the spark of hope. Those were hers to hold, at least for tonight.
As she slipped into bed, the waves a restless lullaby, she knew tomorrow's return to the city would bring new challenges—the Weston world, the tabloids, the life they'd left behind. But for now, in Montauk's quiet embrace, she let herself believe that Alexander Weston might just be worth the fight.