Chapter 3
ARIA
"Just thought I'd try something different," I said, attempting a casual shrug.
"Are you feeling alright? First the medical report, now this change in appetite." His tone wasn't concerned – it was suspicious.
"I'm fine," I said, withdrawing my hand. "Just tired."
Damn these pregnancy cravings. I need to be more careful. Everything I do is under a microscope.
I forced myself to eat plain toast instead, each dry bite sticking in my throat while my body screamed for the sour crunch of those cucumbers.
Outside Morgan Tower, my head throbbed mercilessly. The morning sunlight felt like needles in my eyes. Blake handed me a small box of pills, his movements efficient, impersonal.
"Take these. Don't let your headache affect today's work. The Hudson project proposal is due by five, and I need you to rework the financial projections."
For a second, just one foolish second, I thought he was being considerate.
What a joke. He only cares about the work I do for him. I'm just a functioning asset, an investment that needs to stay operational.
I took the box but didn't open it. Pregnancy and painkillers don't mix. Another secret to keep, another lie to tell.
"Thank you, Mr. Morgan," I said mechanically, slipping the box into my purse where it would stay unopened.
He was already walking away, phone pressed to his ear, not even bothering to acknowledge my thanks. His expensive cologne lingered in the air, the same scent that covered our sheets, our home, my skin. A constant reminder of his presence even in his absence.
Why do I still care? Why does his coldness still hurt after three years?
"Aria!"
I turned to see my mother hurrying toward me, clutching a paper bag. My stomach dropped. Christine Taylor looked out of place in her sensible shoes and department store dress, surrounded by the sleek glass and steel of Morgan Tower.
"Mom, what are you doing here?" I asked, already dreading whatever brought her to my workplace.
Christine looked nervously over her shoulder before thrusting the bag into my hands. "Fertility vitamins. I got them from Dr. Jensen. Top quality, very expensive."
I stared at her in disbelief, the bag hanging heavy between us. "Why would you do this?"
"Elizabeth called me this morning. She said you're having trouble conceiving." She lowered her voice, as if sharing a shameful secret. "She's considering artificial procedures."
Something inside me snapped. Three years of silence, of enduring whispers and judgmental stares, of pretending everything was fine. Three years of swallowing my pain and dignity.
"Do you think I drugged him?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "At that party three years ago, do you honestly believe I slipped something into Blake Morgan's drink so he'd sleep with me?"
Christine looked around frantically, her eyes wide with alarm. "Aria, lower your voice! People will hear you!"
"I don't care about the Morgan name or their status. If I have a child, it will be for me, not for them." My voice shook with emotions I'd suppressed for too long.
"You're being hysterical," she hissed, grabbing my elbow and pulling me toward a more private corner.
"No, I'm being honest for once. Everyone treats me like I'm some gold-digger who tricked her way into the Morgan family. Even my own mother."
"You have no idea what's at stake. The position we're in—"
"Then tell me! Why does everyone look at me like I'm dirt? Because I'm a housekeeper's daughter? Or because they think I drugged Blake that night?"
Christine grabbed my arm, her fingers digging painfully into my flesh. "Listen to me. I was there. I saw you take that drink to him."
"I didn't know it was drugged! Someone handed it to me to deliver!" The words ripped from my throat, raw and desperate. The same defense I'd given a thousand times to deaf ears.
"It doesn't matter anymore," she said dismissively, waving her hand as if brushing away an annoying fly. "It's been three years. The truth is irrelevant now."
Her words cut deeper than any knife. My own mother doesn't believe me. Has never believed me.
"Is that what you think of me? That I'm some desperate woman who used her body to climb the social ladder?"
Christine's face hardened, lines deepening around her mouth. "Whether you schemed or not, it's been three years. The truth doesn't matter anymore. What matters is keeping your position."
The truth has always mattered to me. It's all I have left.
"Blake is getting tired of you, isn't he?" Christine asked suddenly, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. "That's why you're so emotional."
I said nothing, which she took as confirmation. Her eyes softened with something like pity, which was somehow worse than her judgment.
"Did you know Emma Grant is back from Europe?"
The ground lurched beneath me. Everything suddenly made sense – Blake's late-night phone call, his distraction, his eagerness to leave our home.
He hadn't come home last night. No work emergency. He was with another woman.
My throat tightened as tears burned my eyes. I felt stupid, used, broken. The truth knocked the breath from my lungs.
"When?" I managed to ask, my voice a hollow whisper.
"Yesterday. She's completed her dance training in Paris and London. She'll be staying in New York now." My mother didn't even try to hide her admiration. "She'll be the principal dancer for the New York Ballet."
After mother left, I sat alone, processing the news about my rival's success. My hand instinctively moved to my still-flat stomach. For this child's future, I had to maintain the charade. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for tonight's performance alongside Blake.
The Midnight Club throbbed with music and wealth. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light over the crowd of New York's elite. I followed Blake silently, my black suit a stark contrast to the glittering dresses around us.
Blake moved with easy confidence, exchanging greetings and handshakes. I stayed half a step behind, the perfect corporate wife—seen, not heard.
When the VIP room door opened, I felt it immediately – a hostile gaze locking onto me. The sensation hit me with physical force, stopping me cold in the doorway. I raised my eyes and met the stare head-on.
Matthew Redwood.
I instinctively lowered my head, trying to avoid him. Too late.
"Look who's here," Matthew said, holding a whiskey glass as he walked toward Blake. "Morgan bringing a murderer's daughter to discuss business partnerships?"
The words slammed into me with brutal force. My spine went rigid.
Blake didn't defend me, didn't even look at me. He just took the drink Matthew offered, though I caught the almost imperceptible way his knuckles whitened around the glass—as if the insult wasn't worth acknowledging, yet something flickered beneath his composed facade.
I stood in the corner as memories flooded back.