Chapter 3

ARIA

The headache started on the drive to Morgan Tower. A dull throb behind my eyes that grew sharper with every block.

I dug through my purse for painkillers—the acetaminophen my doctor had recommended as safe during pregnancy. I found the bottle.

Two pills. I swallowed them dry.

Jack was waiting when I arrived. "Morning, Aria. Mr. Morgan wants the quarterly reports by noon."

"I'll have them ready."

My desk phone rang before I even sat down. An unknown number.

"Aria Taylor."

"It's your mother."

My hand tightened on the phone. Christine rarely called me at work.

"Mom. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm sending over some vitamins. For fertility. Mrs. Morgan mentioned you might need them."

Of course Elizabeth had told her. My mother, the Grant family's housekeeper for thirty years, heard everything.

"I don't need—"

"You do need to try harder, Aria. Three years is a long time." Her voice dropped. "You remember what happened last time you weren't careful enough."

She meant that night. The night everyone believed I'd drugged Blake.

"That wasn't—"

"Just take the vitamins. And be more careful." She paused. "Oh, and Emma's back from Europe."

The room spun.

"What?"

"She's been appointed principal dancer at New York City Ballet. Very prestigious. Mrs. Grant is thrilled."

Emma. Back in New York.

"Mom, I have to go—"

"She arrived last night. I'm sure Blake already knows."

Last night. When Blake got that phone call and left our house at midnight.

"I'll talk to you later." I hung up before she could say more.

I sat there, staring at nothing. Emma Grant. The daughter of the family my mother had served for decades. Beautiful, talented, accomplished. Everything I wasn't.

Blake had loved her since we were teenagers. Everyone knew it. And she'd loved him back, until she left for Europe to pursue her dancing career.

That was three years ago. Right before Blake and I got married.

He went to see her last night. That warm voice on the phone. That gentle smile I'd never seen him wear for me. It was all for her.

Ten years of loving him. Three years of marriage. And I'd never stood a chance.

My hand moved to my stomach. The child he didn't want. The child she could give him if things were different.

I pulled out my compact and fixed my makeup. The tears hadn't fallen yet. I wouldn't let them.

Not here. Not now.

That evening, Blake told me to get ready.

"We're going to Midnight Club. Business dinner."

Midnight Club. Where Manhattan's elite made deals over twenty-year scotch and Cuban cigars.

"What should I wear?"

"Something appropriate." He was already heading upstairs. "We leave in an hour."

I chose a navy dress. Simple, elegant, forgettable. I wanted to disappear into the background.

Blake wore a charcoal suit that made his ice-blue eyes even more striking. He didn't look at me as we got in the car.

The drive was silent. His phone buzzed twice. Both times, his expression softened as he read the messages.

Her. It had to be her.

Midnight Club occupied the top floor of a building in Midtown. All dark wood and leather, dim lighting and old money. The kind of place where decisions that shaped the city happened over dinner.

Blake's hand rested on my lower back as we entered. Not affection. Just appearances.

"Morgan." A man in his fifties approached. "Good to see you."

"Orion. Thanks for arranging this."

They talked. I stood beside Blake, silent and decorative. That was my role here.

Then I heard a voice that made my blood run cold.

"Look who's here."

Matthew Redwood.

He walked toward us, whiskey glass in hand. Tall, dark-haired, with Olivia's sharp features. The heir to Redwood Medical Center.

My childhood friend's brother. Who now looked at me with pure hatred.

"Morgan," Matthew said. "Bringing a murderer's daughter to discuss business partnerships?"

The words hit me with brutal force. My spine went rigid.

That's right. I was a killer's daughter.

Blake's hand tightened on my back. "Matthew—"

"I'm just surprised, that's all." Matthew's eyes stayed on me. "Most people have standards about who they bring to these places."

"She's here because Mrs. Morgan insisted." Blake's tone was flat, detached. He didn't even look at me.

"Ah." Matthew's smile widened. "How charitable."

I felt every eye in the room turn toward us. Whispers started.

"You might want to remind your... companion," Matthew continued, voice carrying, "that her father killed a man in a drunk driving accident. Destroyed a family. Left a widow and two kids with nothing."

Blake said nothing. Just stood there, jaw tight, staring past Matthew at something across the room.

"Is no one going to address this?" Matthew stepped closer to me. "Because I remember when the Taylors worked for respectable families. When they knew their place. Before one of them decided to—"

"Matthew." Blake's voice was quiet, bored almost. "You're making a scene."

Not defending me. Just concerned about appearances.

Matthew smiled. "I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. The Morgan family reputation has taken quite a hit these past three years."

I stood there, frozen. Every word cut deep. My father was now in a vegetative state. They claimed he had been drinking and driving when he killed someone, but I knew that wasn't who my father was. I was the daughter of an accused killer who'd somehow ended up in the Morgan household.

And Blake wouldn't even look at me.

"Excuse me." I stepped away. "I need the restroom."

I walked away before my voice could break. Kept my head high. My steps steady.

Blake didn't stop me. Didn't call after me. Nothing.

In the bathroom, I locked myself in a stall and pressed my fist against my mouth.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't give them the satisfaction.

But the tears came anyway. Silent, hot, filled with three years of accumulated pain.

My father was a killer. Blake loved Emma. I was pregnant with a child no one wanted. And Matthew had just reminded everyone in that room exactly what I was.

A murderer's daughter who didn't belong.

And Blake had stood there, silent, letting it happen.