Chapter 12
ARIA
The tears came the moment I closed my bedroom door. Three years of contract marriage, and I still couldn't kill this stupid heart. I pressed my bandaged hands against my eyes, but the tears kept coming anyway.
God, I'm pathetic.
I'd actually thought—for just a second when he showed up outside—that he cared. That nearly freezing to death might mean something to him. But no. Emma calls, Blake runs. Same story, different day.
I didn't sleep. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him cradling Emma's hand over that tiny cut while I'd been pounding on a freezer door until my fingers bled. The comparison made me want to throw up.
By morning, my eyes were so swollen I looked like I'd gone ten rounds in a boxing ring. Perfect. Just perfect.
I made it downstairs planning to grab breakfast and head straight to the police station. Someone had tried to kill me. Contract wife or not, I deserved to know who.
Blake sat at the dining table.
My feet stopped moving. He never ate breakfast at home. Ever.
"Sit," he said without looking up from his tablet.
His suit was perfect as always, but those dark circles under his eyes? Those were new. Good. Hope he had nightmares about his precious Emma.
I sat across from him, keeping my bandaged hands in my lap. "I have somewhere to be."
"Where?"
"Police station."
His eyes snapped to mine. "No."
"Excuse me?"
"The Morgan name doesn't need that kind of attention." He set down his tablet and finally looked at me properly. His gaze locked onto my bandages. "Show me your medical records."
"No."
His fingers started that annoying tapping thing on the table. "Aria—"
"You only need to worry about Emma's medical reports." The words came out sharper than intended. "Hers are obviously more important."
"Don't be childish."
Childish? I'd nearly died while he played nursemaid to his ex. But sure, I'm the childish one.
Martha appeared with a tray—chicken soup and whole wheat toast. My stomach growled traitorously. I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.
I picked up the spoon with my left hand. Or tried to. My fingers wouldn't cooperate, and the spoon clattered back into the bowl.
"Let me," Blake said.
"I can manage."
"Clearly you can't." He moved his chair closer and picked up the spoon. "Open your mouth."
"Blake—"
"Last time I'm asking. Open."
The command in his voice should have pissed me off. It did piss me off. But I was starving, and the baby needed food even if I wanted to be stubborn. I opened my mouth.
The soup was perfect—warm, not too salty, exactly what my empty stomach needed. Blake fed me with surprising patience, waiting between each spoonful.
"What else do you want?" he asked, his voice softer now.
"Why aren't you at work?"
"Working from home today." Another spoonful. "Eat."
This was wrong. All wrong. Blake Morgan didn't play caretaker. He didn't feed people soup. He didn't miss work.
"There's soup on your lip," he said.
Before I could wipe it, his thumb brushed across my mouth. The touch was gentle, too gentle, and his finger lingered a second too long. His eyes went dark, focused on my lips in a way that made my stupid heart skip.
I jerked back. "What do you want, Blake?"
"You have bread crumbs," he said, voice rougher now. "And soup."
"I can clean my own face."
"How? With your bandaged hands?" He leaned closer. "Stop being difficult, Aria. Let me take care of you."
Take care of me? That's rich. Where was this concern when I was freezing to death?
"Just eat," I said.
"That's what I'm trying to help you do." His tone shifted, harder now. "What, you can behave for five minutes and then it's back to being uncooperative?"
I wanted to throw the soup in his face. I wanted to ask why he suddenly gave a damn. I wanted to demand answers about last night, about Emma, about why he'd chosen her over me again.
Instead, I opened my mouth for another spoonful because my baby needed food more than I needed my pride.
A crash from the doorway made us both turn.
Emma stood there, a thermal lunch box at her feet, a dull thud lingering.
Blake was on his feet instantly, helping her pick up the container. "Are you hurt?"
"My wrist," she said softly, cradling the hand with the tiny bandage. "It's still tender. I'm so clumsy."
Sure you are.
"Why are you here?" Blake asked.
"I came to check on Aria." Emma's voice dripped fake concern. "After what happened last night, I was so worried."
Blake glanced back at me. "That's thoughtful. I need to handle some calls anyway."
"I can take over," Emma offered quickly. "You must have so much work."
"Good idea." He was already heading for the door. "Make sure she eats everything."
And just like that, he left me alone with her.
---
Emma took Blake's seat, her smile dropping the second he was gone.
"How are you feeling?" she asked sweetly. "That must have been terrifying, being trapped in that freezer."
"Cut the act, Emma." I was done playing games. "What's this really about?"
Her face went pale. For a second, real fear flashed in her eyes before she covered it with confusion. "I don't understand what you mean."
"We both know where we stand after the Morgan centennial. You won. You got Blake. So why the concerned friend routine?"
She relaxed slightly.
"I'm sorry about the gala." She actually managed to look contrite. "Being publicly claimed by Blake... I was just so happy I got carried away."
"Spare me."
"Did Blake tell you he decided not to involve the police?" She stirred the soup absently. "He's worried about Morgan Enterprises' reputation. Stock prices, you know."
Of course he was. My life versus his company's image. No contest.
"Aria," Emma leaned forward, "you're not upset about that, are you?"
My hands clenched under the table. "The decision to suppress this and cancel the police report—Blake made that himself?"
"Of course." Emma's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "The Morgan centennial was such an important milestone for the family empire. He couldn't let your little incident overshadow that success or affect stock prices."
Your little incident. Nearly dying was just a little incident.
"And he told you first," I said flatly. "Not me. The actual victim."
"Well, I was with him when he made the call." She shrugged. "We were together all night, discussing the future."
Of course they were. I almost died, and Blake spent the night planning his future with Emma. He didn't care about finding who tried to kill me. Didn't care about the truth. Didn't care about me at all.
The divorce couldn't come fast enough. Two more years? I wasn't sure I'd survive that long—literally.
I pushed back from the table, done with this conversation, done with her, done with all of it. "Why would I be upset? It's exactly what I expected."