Chapter 79

Chapter 79
Violet's POV:

Celeste walked directly toward my desk.

"Violet," she said, her voice carrying that sweet, genuine quality I remembered. "Daemon said you've been having stomach issues. I made you something light and nutritious."

She set the insulated bag on my desk with a soft thud.

"Thank you," I said coolly. "But I don't need it."

Linda chose that exact moment to walk past, returning from the break room with a coffee cup. She stopped dead when she saw Celeste, her face draining of all color. The cup trembled in her hand, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"You..." Linda's voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper. "You're Morrison's daughter?"

Celeste turned, surprise clear on her young face. "Yes. Do you know me?"

Linda drew in a sharp breath, her knuckles white around the coffee cup. For a moment, I thought she might drop it. Then she forced her features into something resembling a professional expression, though her eyes remained haunted.

"Violet, the meeting starts in ten minutes," Linda said tightly.

She walked away before either of us could respond, her shoulders rigid with tension.

Celeste watched her go, confusion creasing her brow. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," I said shortly. "She's just busy."

I turned back to my computer, hoping Celeste would take the hint and leave. Instead, she settled into the visitor's chair beside my desk, pulling out her phone.

"I'll wait," she said pleasantly. "Just in case you change your mind about lunch."

I bit back my irritation and focused on finishing my report. Let her wait. It wasn't my responsibility to manage her time or feelings.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was gathering materials for the meeting, Celeste's phone rang. Her whole demeanor changed instantly, lighting up like someone had switched on a lamp inside her.

"Daemon!" Her voice went sweet and syrupy. "I'm at Violet's office right now..."

I paused in collecting my files, watching her from the corner of my eye. She twirled a strand of honey-blonde hair around her finger, her smile soft and adoring as she listened to whatever Daemon was saying on the other end.

Does she know? I wondered coldly. Does she know she's just another Aurora replacement? Does she know Daemon doesn't love her for who she is, but for the ghost she resembles?

If she knew the truth, would she still sit there smiling like that? Or would she spend five years the way I did, desperately trying to become someone else, someone worthy of love that was never really meant for her?

"I have a lunch meeting," I said, cutting through her phone conversation. "You can go now."

Celeste covered the phone's microphone, her expression briefly hurt. "Oh. Okay. But the food—"

"Leave it." I picked up my bag and walked away, leaving the insulated container sitting on my desk like an accusation.

The meeting dragged on longer than expected. By the time it ended, my stomach was growling and the mild nausea I'd been fighting all morning had returned with a vengeance. I needed food, but not whatever Celeste had brought.

I grabbed my coat from my desk—the insulated bag still sat there, untouched—and headed for the elevator. The lunch rush was in full swing, the lobby crowded with employees heading out for their break.

The revolving door spat me out onto the front steps, and I stopped short.

Daemon leaned against a black SUV parked at the curb, arms crossed over his chest, his blood-red eyes fixed directly on me.

Before I could decide whether to acknowledge him or just walk past, rapid footsteps sounded behind me.

"Daemon!" Celeste burst through the doors like an enthusiastic puppy, practically throwing herself into his arms. "What are you doing here? You didn't tell me you were coming!"

She buried her face against his chest, her bandaged hand clutching his jacket. Daemon's arms came up automatically to steady her, but his eyes remained on me, unreadable.

A Benz pulled up to the curb, and Beck emerged from the driver's side, a thermal lunch box in his hands. His timing was either perfect or terrible, depending on perspective. His eyes found mine immediately, then shifted to Daemon with clear recognition and something harder.

The air between us all turned thick and tense. Several passing employees slowed their pace, sensing drama.

Beck walked up the steps, moving with deliberate confidence, and reached for my hand. His fingers were warm and steady as they laced through mine.

"With me," Beck said smoothly. "Come on, our reservation's in fifteen minutes. We should go."

Daemon's eyes fixed on our joined hands like they were something obscene. His jaw clenched hard enough that I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

Celeste, oblivious to the tension, pulled back from Daemon with a bright smile. "Beck! You're the one who followed Violet all the way from Frost Pack to Silver Ridge, right? That's so romantic!"

The words landed like grenades in the silence.

Daemon's head snapped toward Celeste, then back to Beck. "Followed her to Silver Ridge?"

"Yes." Beck's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "Violet is where I choose to be."

I felt my heart rate spike, but I kept my expression neutral. Then, making a decision, I tightened my grip on Beck's hand, interlacing our fingers more deliberately. A visible response, a message.

Celeste, still smiling, apparently determined to make everything worse, continued cheerfully, "Oh, and Daemon, remember when Evan was asking about Violet's address here? He seemed really concerned about her too. She has so many people who care about her!"

Daemon's face had gone dangerously still. The kind of still that preceded violence or ice-cold fury. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Then he pulled car keys from his pocket and turned to Celeste with forced gentleness.

"Celeste, this red BMW X3 is for you." He pressed the keys into her uninjured hand. "Your hand is injured. I don't want you riding that dangerous scooter anymore."

Celeste's eyes went wide with shock. "This is... this is too much! I can take the bus, or my electric scooter is fine—"

"You're my responsibility," Daemon said firmly. "I won't let you get hurt."

I turned to Beck with deliberate sweetness, pitching my voice to carry. "Beck, I don't want to walk to the restaurant. The sun will damage my skin."

Beck caught on immediately, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Of course. My car's right here. And I packed your favorite lunch—everything you like."

He led me toward the car, his hand still firmly holding mine. When we reached the passenger side, he opened the door with theatrical courtesy, the kind of attention Daemon had never bothered to show in public.

Behind us, I heard nothing. No footsteps, no voice calling out. Just weighted silence.

I slid into the passenger seat, and Beck closed the door gently. Through the window, I could see Daemon standing frozen by his SUV, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Celeste was tugging tentatively at his sleeve, trying to get his attention, but he didn't seem to notice.

Beck rounded the car and got in the driver's seat, but before he could start the engine, my door was yanked open.

Daemon stood there, his hand gripping the door frame. "Are you really with him now?"

"Get your hand off my car," Beck said coldly.

"I'm asking Violet." Daemon's eyes burned into mine. "Are you actually together?"

I held his gaze steadily. "That's none of your concern. You need to focus on your 'responsibility.'"

Beck got out of the car and came around to my side, placing himself physically between Daemon and me. "Blackwood, you and Violet completed the rejection ceremony. You have no claim on her."

"Beck," I said quietly. "Let's go."

I reached out and pulled the car door closed myself. Beck held Daemon's gaze for another long moment, then returned to the driver's seat and started the engine.

As we pulled away, I didn't look back.

Beck drove to a quiet vegetarian restaurant about ten minutes away, finding a parking spot in a secluded corner of the lot. He turned off the engine but made no move to go inside.

"We don't actually have a reservation," he said with a small smile. "I just needed to get you out of there."

"I figured." I leaned my head back against the seat, suddenly exhausted.

"But I did bring lunch." He reached into the back seat and retrieved the thermal lunch box.

He opened the container, and the smell that wafted out was surprisingly appealing—steamed pumpkin, grilled chicken breast, quinoa, fresh fruit. My stomach, which had been churning with nausea and stress, suddenly decided it was ravenous.

"Thank you," I said, accepting the utensils he handed me. "For everything. The performance back there, and this."

"Sienna asked me to look after you. This is what looking after means." He opened his own container. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."

He wasn't wrong. Between morning sickness and work stress, I'd been surviving mostly on crackers and ginger tea.

We ate in comfortable silence for a while. The food was exactly what I needed—nourishing without being overwhelming, flavorful without triggering my sensitive stomach.

"If you want to rest after eating, you can recline the seat," he offered. "I'll set a timer and wake you before we need to head back."

The suggestion was so tempting I almost cried. The pregnancy exhaustion was relentless, and I'd been fighting it all morning.

"Just thirty minutes," I said, already adjusting the seat back.

Beck pulled off his jacket and draped it over me like a blanket. The gesture was so simple, so kind, that I felt my throat tighten with emotion.

"Sleep," he said gently. "I'll keep watch."

I closed my eyes, and despite everything—the confrontation, the stress, the constant anxiety—I fell asleep almost immediately.

When the timer woke me thirty minutes later, I felt more rested than I had in weeks. Beck had dozed off too, his head resting against the steering wheel, his breathing slow and even.

"Hey," I said softly, touching his shoulder. "Time to head back."

He stirred, blinking slowly. "Sorry. Guess I was more tired than I thought."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "For today. For being here."

"Anytime."

Beck walked me back to the building, our hands no longer joined but our companionship easy and comfortable. In the elevator, he reminded me, "I'm making dinner tonight. Don't order takeout."

"Deal," I said, grateful.

The afternoon passed in a blur of work and meetings. I was reviewing a contract when Linda appeared beside my desk, her gaze fixed on the empty spot where the lunch bag had been.

"You didn't eat what Morrison's daughter brought," she observed, her voice carefully neutral.

"I had other plans," I said without looking up.

"I saw. That BMW Daemon gave her—market price is at least eighty thousand dollars."

I finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "So?"

Linda studied me for a long moment. "I'm curious. Why did you chase him for five years, then walk away so easily?"

"Linda, it's work hours. I don't want to discuss my personal life."

Her expression hardened instantly. "You're right. Everyone has a past they don't want to talk about."

She turned and walked away, her shoulders stiff.

By the time I left work, I was exhausted again. The brief nap in Beck's car had helped, but it wasn't enough to combat three months of pregnancy fatigue compounded by stress.

The elevator in my apartment building greeted me with an "Out of Order" sign taped to the doors.

"Line maintenance in progress. Elevator service suspended until 8:00 PM."

I checked my phone. 6:30 PM. And I lived on the twelfth floor.

"Great," I muttered, looking at the stairwell door. "Come on, baby. Let's get some exercise."

I pushed through the door and started climbing.

By the fifth floor, I was breathing hard and had to stop. My hand went automatically to my stomach as I leaned against the wall, taking deep gulps of air. I used to be able to run for miles. Now I could barely climb five flights of stairs.

I drank some water, then continued upward.

Then I saw him.

Daemon stood in the shadows at the turn of the stairs, his blood-red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

The smell of whiskey hit me before I could speak.

"What—" I started, but he moved.

His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, yanking me against his chest. My grocery bag fell, fruit scattering everywhere—blueberries and strawberries rolling down the stairs in a cascade of sound.

"Let me go!" I struggled against his grip, but his arms locked around me like steel bands.

Then he kissed me.

It was brutal and demanding, tasting of whiskey and desperation. His mouth crushed against mine, one hand releasing my wrist to tangle in my hair, holding me in place while he claimed what he thought was his.

I fought back. Twisted my head, brought my knee up hard, and when his grip loosened for just a second, I bit down on his lower lip until I tasted blood.

He jerked back with a curse. I wrenched one hand free and raked my nails across his neck, leaving angry red welts.

"Go find Celeste if you're drunk and horny!" I spat. "Stop bothering me!"

He touched his bleeding lip, staring at the blood on his fingers. "I only think about you when I'm drunk."

"That's your problem, not mine!"

"Violet..." He swayed, and I realized just how intoxicated he was. "We shouldn't be like this."

"You made us like this! This is assault, Daemon. I could call the police right now."

Something like regret flickered across his face as he looked at the red marks his hands had left on my wrists.

"I never wanted to break the mate bond," he said quietly.

I laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "But I did."

"Why?"

"I gave you five years to love me, and it never worked. Not once."

Silence stretched between us.

"Give me time," he finally said. "I'll handle things with Celeste."

"You can't handle it, Daemon. Aurora and Celeste—they're your truth. And I don't want to spend another ten years making a fool of myself."

My voice broke on the last words, and I hated myself for it.

He reached for me again, but I stepped back. "Don't touch me."

We stood there in the shadows, both breathing hard, the scattered fruit crushed beneath our feet.

Then footsteps thundered from above—rapid, furious. Beck appeared at the landing above us, his face a mask of rage.

"Get away from her!"

He moved with shocking speed, grabbing me and pulling me behind him in one fluid motion. His fist connected with Daemon's jaw with a crack that echoed through the concrete stairwell.