Chapter 210: Emergency

Chapter 210: Emergency
Tara’s POV

"Luke," I answered the phone, my voice sharper than intended, "where are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm at home," he replied, sounding perfectly normal. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Relief washed over me, quickly replaced by annoyance. My heart had been racing since James first mentioned he couldn't reach Luke, my mind flashing with images of him collapsed or worse. Now hearing his casual tone made me feel foolish for my concern.

"We've been calling you," I said coldly. "We're standing outside your door right now."

"My phone was in the bedroom," he explained. "The doorbell might be malfunctioning again. I'll come let you in."

Moments later, the door opened to reveal Luke in his wheelchair, looking completely fine. He wore a gray sweater that accentuated his broad shoulders, his dark hair slightly disheveled in that way that always made my fingers itch to smooth it. His familiar cologne hit me as I walked in, triggering memories I'd been trying to forget.

"Sorry to worry you," he said, dark eyes studying my face.

I avoided his gaze, scanning the house instead. Everything was as neat as usual, with no signs of anything amiss.

"I tried your birthday as the door code," I said, eager to break the sudden tension. "It didn't work."

Luke's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "I changed it," he said quietly. "The new code is your birthday."

Something tightened in my chest. "You should change it again," I managed to keep my voice steady. "It's not secure."

Our eyes met, and in that moment I felt that dangerous pull between us—the one I'd been fighting since our divorce. That feeling that made me want to move closer and run away at the same time.

Luke's lips now curved into a slight smile. "You orchestrated this," I accused, feeling the trap close around me. "Your phone was never away from you."

His eyes held mine, neither confirming nor denying. "Coffee?" he offered instead, already turning his wheelchair toward the kitchen.

I should have left immediately. Instead, I found myself following him, tracing this familiar path through his home that evoked memories I'd tried to bury. My body seemed to remember every touch, every intimate moment we'd shared in this house, even as my mind refused to recall them.

---

"The woman you hired wants to marry my father," I said bluntly as Luke prepared the coffee.

Luke's hand paused briefly over the coffee machine. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. The woman you hired to impersonate my aunt Sophia now wants to marry my father." I leaned against the counter, carefully watching his reaction. "This is entirely your fault."

Luke continued his coffee preparation, his expression thoughtful. "I certainly didn't anticipate this when I hired her."

"Really? You didn't think that placing a young woman around my lonely, vulnerable father might lead to this?" My tone dripped with sarcasm.

"Your father is far from vulnerable," Luke countered. "Even at his age, he remains one of the sharpest minds I've encountered. If he's pursuing this relationship, I doubt it's because he's being manipulated."

"She was never supposed to form a real relationship with him," I insisted. "She was hired to play a role. To provide familiarity and comfort. Not to become his wife."

Luke handed me a cup of coffee, his fingers briefly brushing against mine. "People develop genuine feelings in unexpected circumstances, Tara. You should understand that better than most."

I ignored both the implication and the momentary warmth from his touch. "This can't happen. I need you to fix it."

Luke looked up at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "Did you come all this way just to blame me for creating this situation, or was there something else?"

"I came because you weren't answering your phone and I was..." I stopped before saying 'worried about you,' "...concerned, given your recent poisoning."

"How considerate," Luke said softly, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "But as you can see, I'm perfectly fine. Unless you came to poison me yourself?"

"Don't tempt me," I muttered, setting down my untouched coffee on his table. "I should go. I have more important matters to attend to."

I turned to leave, but Luke's voice stopped me. "You really thought I might be in danger? That's why you rushed over?"

The genuine curiosity in his tone made me pause. I didn't turn around. "James was worried. I happened to be nearby."

"James wasn't worried until you called him," Luke said quietly, "and Mountain View isn't really 'near' Lakeside Park."

I turned to face him, keeping my expression neutral. "Don't read too much into it, Luke. Professional courtesy, nothing more."

"Of course," he agreed, though the glint in his eyes suggested he didn't believe it for a second. "Since you're here, could you help me with something? I need to use the bathroom."

I narrowed my eyes. "You're perfectly capable of using the bathroom yourself."

"Usually, yes," he admitted, "but my arms feel particularly weak today."

I hesitated, caught between suspicion and basic humanity. Finally, I sighed. "Fine. I'll wheel you to the bathroom. Then I'm leaving."

"Thank you," Luke said, his gratitude seeming excessive for such a simple favor.

I grabbed the handles of his wheelchair and pushed him down the hallway to the master bathroom, silently questioning my life choices.

"Here we are," I stopped at the door. "I'll wait outside."

Luke looked up at me, his expression slightly embarrassed. "Actually, I might need more help. My arms really are weak today."

"What kind of help?" I asked warily.

"I might need assistance... removing certain garments."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary," Luke insisted, his expression earnest, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

"Luke Carter," I said coldly, "I am not helping you take off your pants."

"I understand this is awkward," he continued, "but I'd rather ask you than call James back. That kind of assistance would be uncomfortable for my assistant."

"But not uncomfortable for your ex-wife?"

"We were married for three years, Tara," he reminded me. "You've seen every part of my body countless times."

"That was then," I said firmly. "This is now. I'm not touching any part of you."

Luke sighed dramatically. "Fine. I'll figure it out myself. Though if I fall and injure myself further, we'll both know who to blame."

Luke wheeled himself into the bathroom and closed the door. I leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. A minute later, I heard a dull thud from inside the bathroom, followed by silence.

"Luke?" I called immediately, alert. "Are you alright?"

No response.

"Luke!" I moved to the door, my hand already on the handle, genuine fear overriding my caution.

Still no sound.

I pushed the door open, prepared for the worst—only to find Luke sitting perfectly intact in his wheelchair, watching me with a satisfied expression.

"I'm fine," he said, his lips curving into that smile I once found irresistible. "Just knocked over a bottle."

Heat rushed to my face—partly embarrassment, partly anger. "You did that on purpose."

"Did what?" His expression remained innocent, but his eyes held understanding.

I gripped the handles of his wheelchair tightly, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his body as I leaned slightly forward to push. His masculine cologne mingled with his natural scent, triggering a cascade of sensory memories I'd spent months trying to forget.

"I'm done," Luke announced when we returned to the study. "Thank you for your help, even if it wasn't quite to the extent I'd hoped."

"I'm leaving," I said flatly. "Handle the situation with that woman, Luke. She's your responsibility."

"Tara," Luke called as I reached the door. "Wait. There's one more thing I need."

"Whatever it is, the answer is no," I said without turning around.

"I just wanted to apologize," he said, suddenly serious. "For everything. For bringing that woman into your father's life. For not foreseeing how things might develop. You're right—I should take responsibility for resolving it."

The sincerity in his voice made me pause, my hand on the doorknob. I turned to face him, searching his expression for any sign of manipulation. For once, he looked genuinely remorseful.

"Before you go," he added, "could you possibly just—"

I held up my hand to stop him. "No more favors, Luke. Not today."

I left without looking back, closing the door behind me, ignoring the sudden emptiness in my chest.

---

Instead of returning to Mountain View, I drove directly to Jamie's apartment. My encounter with Luke had left me unsettled, a familiar tension lingering in my body. I needed to focus on finding Finn.

Jamie lived in an old apartment building in a working-class neighborhood. I climbed six flights of stairs, my legs burning with fatigue by the time I reached her floor. What was wrong with me? My stamina used to be much better.

I knocked on Jamie's door, waiting for a response that didn't come. After three increasingly forceful attempts, I scanned the empty hallway, then took out my lock-picking tools. Within seconds, I heard the crisp sound of the lock mechanism disengaging.

The apartment was modest but tidy—worn furniture carefully arranged, family photos on the walls. Everything looked undisturbed.

"Jamie?" I called softly, moving deeper into the apartment, heavy silence surrounding me.

I checked the bathroom—empty—then moved toward the master bedroom, its door half-open.

"Jamie?" I pushed the door, my breath catching.

Jamie lay on the floor, a kitchen knife protruding from her abdomen. Blood pooled beneath her in a dark red puddle, her eyes vacant and empty. I rushed over immediately, though I already knew she was beyond help. The blood was still somewhat sticky—this had happened recently.

I knelt beside her, examining the wound while my brain processed what this meant. The timing couldn't be coincidence.

As I crouched there, analyzing the angle of the knife, I heard the apartment door open, followed by hurried footsteps.

"Mom? Are you home?"

A young man appeared in the doorway, stopping abruptly as he took in the scene before him—his mother's lifeless body and me beside her, my hands covered in her blood.

His face contorted with grief and rage. "You killed her!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "You murdered my mother!"

"No, I didn't—" I rose slowly, hands raised.

"Don't move!" he trembled as he pulled out his phone. "I'm calling the police!"