The CEO's Regret: His Lost Wife's Secret Twins novel Chapter 70

Chapter 70

ARIA

I straightened slowly. This looked bad-me fussing over Matthew’s place setting, him lounging with that satisfied smirk.

“Blake. Didn’t expect you back so soon.

“Clearly. His gaze moved to Matthew.

Matthew raised his glass mockingly. “Your wife makes an excellent hostess.”

Blake’s jaw ticked.

Mrs. Grant jumped in. “Matthew happened to be nearby! We thought it’d be nice to include him.”

Blake’s eyes stayed on mine. “How thoughtful of my wife.”

He closed the distance in two strides, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against him hard enough to make me stumble.

“All this work must be exhausting, darling.” His fingers dug into my hip. “Especially after tending to my injuries earlier.

I wanted to knee him. Instead, I smiled. “Just helping with lunch.”

I tried stepping away. His grip tightened.

He grabbed a chair and placed it right beside mine. Not across. Not at a distance. Right beside me.

Great.

Matthew watched us with barely concealed amusement. “Trouble in paradise, Morgan?”

“Not at all. Blake’s smile could cut glass. “Just making sure my wife knows where she belongs.”

‘Funny. Matthew leaned back. ‘I thought people belonged where they wanted to be, not where they’re caged.”

The air went cold.

“Gentlemen.” Mr. Grant’s voice boomed across the terrace. “Let’s keep things civil.”

Emma started approaching, her sundress floating around her legs, clearly planning to claim Blake’s side.

“Emma!” Mrs. Grant called out. “Come help me in the kitchen. Now.”

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Chapter 70

Emma fraze Her mother’s tone left no argument.

Of course, Mom. Her smile was tight, but I caught the fury in her eyes before she turned.

I sank into my chair. Blake beside me. Matthew across. The Grants pretending this wasn’t awkward as hell.

‘I brought coconut cookies. I reached for my bag. “Made them this morning. Anyone-

“Coconut cookies? Blake’s voice could freeze fire. “How interesting. Emma makes those too.”

“Actually,” Mrs. Grant interjected, “Aria’s been making coconut cookies since she was twelve. Long before Emma ever stepped in a kitchen.

Blake’s expression didn’t change. “Is that so?”

My mind flew back to those days. Emma, perfect Emma, desperate to impress her new boyfriend Blake. She’d cornered me in the kitchen one afternoon, all sweetness and fake friendship.

“Aria, you have to help me! Blake loves French pastries, and I told him I’d make him something special.

“Why don’t you just buy them?” I’d asked, elbow-deep in flour.

“Because homemade shows I care! Please? I’ll let you borrow my pink cardigan.”

I’d spent hours teaching her, but Emma couldn’t crack an egg without getting shell everywhere. Finally, she’d given up.

“Just make them for me. I’ll pay you.”

Emma, that’s-

“Twenty dollars per batch. Come on, it’s not like Blake will know.”

So I’d made them. Batch after batch. Emma would pack them in pretty boxes, add ribbons, and present them to Blake as her own creation.

The worst part? The day I’d burned my hand on the oven rack.

‘Perfect!’ Emma had squealed when she saw the angry red mark. Now I can tell Blake I hurt myself baking for him!

She’d run off to find him, clutching the cookies I’d made while nursing my burnt hand. I’d heard her through the window: Blake, I burned myself making these for you. Kiss it better?”

And he had.

Now here we sat, years later, and he still didn’t know the truth.

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Emma baked for me many times when we dated, Blake said coldly. ‘She d bring French pastries every week. Made them herself

1 bit my tongue. Let him believe what he wanted.

Mrs. Grant wasn’t buying it. “Emma, sweetheart, you’ve never successfully baked anything in your life. Remember the time you tried to

make toast and set off the fire alarm?”

“Mom!” Emma’s voice pitched high as she returned with a pitcher of lemonade. ‘I made a few things for Blake. That’s why you never saw

them.

Mr. Grant snorted. “The only thing you’ve ever made in a kitchen is a mess.”

Emma’s hand trembled slightly as she poured lemonade. “Blake can confirm I made those cookies.”

I watched Blake’s face. He wanted to believe her. Needed to believe the perfect girlfriend narrative.

“Let’s try these famous cookies. Matthew reached for the container before anyone could stop him.

I handed it over, a flutter of pride in my chest. I’d perfected this recipe over years. The right balance of coconut and vanilla, crispy

outside, chewy inside.

Matthew bit into one. His face twisted.

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