Chapter 4
ARIA
As a child, when my mother worked at the Grant estate, I spent almost every day tangled up in games with Olivia and Matthew. Matthew and I? We were two peas in a pod—though our idea of fun usually involved wrestling in the grass until our knees were scraped raw, or sneaking into the kitchen to steal cookies while the cook's back was turned.
He'd yank my braids and call me "wildcat" when I tackled him to the ground, but there was always a grin tugging at his lips when he said it. Once, we got caught trying to feed the swans in the lake bread that was meant for the house guests. He lied through his teeth, saying it was all his idea, and let me sneak away scot-free—only to corner me later and demand half my dessert as payment.
Who could've guessed those scraped knees and stolen cookies would turn into something unrecognizable when we grew up?
The accident shattered it all.
Ten years ago, my father Aaron was driving Matthew's father to Boston airport. The car spun out of control, slamming into the guardrail. Mr. Redwood died instantly. My father survived, but only as a vegetative shell.
The dashboard camera footage seemed to show my father veering the wheel deliberately. The Redwood family called it murder.
I've never believed it. My father was the kind of man who stopped to help stray cats cross the road. He wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone take a life.
In high school, Matthew's mother sent people to threaten me—whispers in the hallway about selling me to traffickers, shadows following me home after dark. Fear became my constant companion, a heavy weight in my chest.
That night, I stood on the dormitory roof, rain soaking through my sweater. The ground below flickered with distant streetlights, a quiet promise of an end to the fear.
If the dorm supervisor hadn't found me, flashlight bobbing in the dark, I wouldn't be here to tell this story.
"What's wrong, Blake?" Matthew's voice pulled me back to reality. "Your little assistant doesn't look comfortable."
Blake held his drink, glancing at me indifferently. "She's fine. Continue our conversation."
He won't even defend me.
"I heard," Matthew approached me, his gaze turning to steel, "you studied dance while growing up at the Grant estate?"
"Yes, I did," I kept my voice steady.
"Then," Matthew displayed a fake smile, "to celebrate our upcoming partnership, would you dance for us?"
Everyone in the private room turned to look at me, their expressions curious or contemptuous.
I looked at Blake, hoping he would intervene. But he just asked coldly, "Can you refuse Mr. Redwood's request?"
Of course not. In this situation, I was backed into a corner.
"Two choices," Matthew held up a bottle of whiskey, "either dance, or drink this entire bottle in one go."
I stared at the bottle, fear rising in my chest. I was pregnant, I couldn't drink. But refusing would embarrass Blake in front of his business partners.
"Drink it," Blake suggested, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather. "Then you can leave."
"I choose to dance," I blurted out, surprising even myself.
Matthew's eyes flashed with surprise, then returned to that condescending expression. "Then begin, murderer's daughter. Let's see what you're worth."
You want to humiliate me? I won't give you that satisfaction.
I removed my jacket and high heels, walking barefoot onto the club's small stage. The spotlight hit me, harsh and cold.
The music started, and I closed my eyes, letting my body move with the rhythm. Each movement was precise and powerful, showcasing my trained technique.
I didn't dance to please men, but performed modern dance full of strength and emotion. All the pain, anger, and despair hidden in my heart flowed into the dance.
When I finished with a final spin, the room fell silent. Then applause erupted, some even whistled.
I turned to leave the stage when suddenly dizziness overwhelmed me. My vision blurred, and my spine burned with pain.
My knees buckled, my body falling forward uncontrollably.
"Blake..." I whispered his name as consciousness faded.
Strong arms caught me. Blake's scent surrounded me, familiar yet strange. I opened my eyes to see something flash across his ice-blue eyes that I couldn't interpret.
"I'm taking you out of here," he said, his voice no longer as cold as usual.
Blake carried me to his luxury sedan in the underground parking garage. His behavior confused me—he never showed concern for me in public.
After closing the car door, Blake didn't immediately start the engine. He remained silent for a moment, then suddenly moved closer, reclining my seat.
"Where did you go today?" he suddenly asked.
"Just to see my mother," I answered, my heart racing.
"What did she tell you?"
"Just some everyday conversation..." I hesitated, "Is Emma back from Europe already?"
Blake's eyes went ice-cold. His grip tightened on my wrist as his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. When I didn't flinch, he snapped—his hand flew to my throat, squeezing until I could barely breathe.
"Are you investigating me?" he growled.
"No...no," I struggled to speak, "my mother told me, she works at the Grant house..."
Blake's hand tightened. "Remember your place, Aria. Don't have any designs on Emma. Emma has an old spine injury, and if she feels any discomfort, I'll make you feel worse."
He remembers Emma's old injury, but doesn't know I have a spine injury too. The cause was from when I fell down the stairs 10 years ago while playing around recklessly - at least that's what everyone says. I don't have any memory of it, and nobody seemed to care.
"I understand," I said quietly, fighting back tears.
Blake released his grip, looking at me coldly. "How disappointing. Take an Uber back, and call a driver for me."
With that, he got out and left, leaving me alone in the luxury car.
When I returned to the Hampton estate that evening, every step was agony. But once I reached my room, my nerves finally settled and the pain dulled to numbness. I made my way to the kitchen where dinner was waiting.
"Your favorite Mexican hot sauce, Mrs. Morgan," the maid smiled.
I nodded in thanks. But when I tasted the hot sauce, the unusual sourness made me frown.
Pregnancy is so strange, everything I used to love tastes different now.
The sourness brought tears to my eyes, but not entirely because of the sauce.
My phone vibrated with a text from my mother:
[Drink those fertility and pregnancy supplements. Send me a video as proof. The Morgan family needs an heir.]
I didn't reply. Could I even keep this baby? Blake clearly stated he didn't want my child. And my physical condition wasn't promising.
Perhaps this is fate. Loving a man who doesn't love me, carrying a child I might not be able to keep.
That night, I lay in the empty king-sized bed, Blake hadn't come home again. I closed my eyes and drifted into dreams.
In my dream, I was back at the Grant estate. I carried a plate of strawberries, watching Blake massaging Emma's back. His movements were so gentle, his eyes so tender.
"Get out," dream Blake told me, his voice ice cold. "You don't belong here."
I woke with a start to find my pillow soaked. Outside, darkness engulfed everything, and the other side of the bed remained empty.