The CEO's Regret: His Lost Wife's Secret Twins novel Chapter 71

Chapter 71

“Christ, what the hell?’ He spat it into a napkin.

My stomach dropped. What?

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Mrs. Grant reached for one. “That’s impossible. Aria’s cookies are- She bit into it and immediately grimaced. “Oh my. This is… burnt?

And the texture…

Burnt? That was impossible. I’d watched them carefully.

I grabbed a cookie. The moment I bit down, I knew something was wrong. Burnt edges, gummy center, way too much salt. This wasn’t my

recipe. This wasn’t even close.

“Let me see those.” I opened the container fully. Every single cookie was wrong. Dark brown instead of golden, misshapen, amateur.

These weren’t mine.

My hands started shaking. A whole morning’s work. Gone. Replaced with… what?

“How careless, Emma said, her voice dripping fake concern. “Aria, did you rush these? They look… underbaked and overcooked at the

same time.

I stared at her. She wasn’t even trying to hide her satisfaction.

“Actually,” Emma continued, reaching into her own bag, “I brought some cookies too. Just in case.” She pulled out a pink box tied with

white ribbon. ‘I made these last night. For old times’ sake.”

She opened the box. Perfect golden coconut cookies. MY recipe. MY technique. The ones I’d made this morning.

She switched them.

‘Here, Blake. She pushed the box toward him. “Try one of mine.”

He took one. Bit into it. His expression softened.

“These are perfect,” he said quietly. “Just like I remember.”

Emma beamed. “I’ve been practicing. Wanted to get them just right.”

She stole them. She actually stole my cookies and replaced them with burnt garbage.

Emma. My voice came out strangled. “Where did you get those?”

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Chapter 71

I made them last night. Her eyes met mine with challenge. “Why?”

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‘Those look exactly like the ones I made this morning.”

“Well, we learned from the same person, remember? You taught me years ago.” She smiled sweetly. “Though apparently my technique has

improved more than yours.”

Mrs. Grant frowned. “Emma, those look identical to-

“Mom, please.” Emma’s voice turned sharp. “Don’t embarrass Aria more than she already is. We all have off days.”

Matthew grabbed one of Emma’s cookies. Bit into it slowly. His eyes locked on mine.

He knows.

“Aria,” he said carefully, “these taste exactly like the ones you made for me. Down to the vanilla-coconut ratio.”

“That’s because I taught her,” Emma jumped in. “We use the same-

“No.” Matthew’s voice cut like steel. “You don’t. I’ve had Aria’s cookies dozens of times. These are hers. Which means those- he gestured

to the burnt ones “-aren’t.”

Emma’s face paled. “That’s ridiculous-

“Is it?” Matthew stood. “Because I’m thinking maybe someone did a little switcheroo. Sabotaged Aria’s batch and replaced them with her

own.

‘Matthew! Mrs. Grant gasped.

“That’s a serious accusation,” Mr. Grant said, but his eyes were on his daughter.

Emma’s hands trembled. ‘I would never- Blake, you believe me, right?”

Blake looked between us. The burnt cookies. The perfect ones. Emma’s pleading face. My shaking hands.

“Emma makes cookies,’ he said finally. “She always has.”

The words landed like punches.

“Blake- I started.

“Enough.” He stood abruptly. “This is childish. Fighting over cookies. We’re leaving.”

“But lunch- Mrs. Grant began.

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Chapter 71

“Send our regrets. His hand clamped on my arm. “My wife clearly needs rest. She’s not thinking straight.”

Matthew moved to block us. “Morgan, you can’t seriously-

“Step aside, Redwood.”

‘Make me.

They stood there, two alpha males in a ridiculous standoff over cookies and pride.

“Matthew.” I touched his arm gently. “It’s fine. Really.”

It’s not fine. Nothing is fine. But I’m too tired to fight.

His jaw clenched but he stepped back. “If you need anything-”

“She won’t.” Blake pulled me toward the exit. “She has a husband.”

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The ride back was silent. I clutched the container of burnt cookies, evidence of Emma’s petty cruelty. Blake drove with white knuckles, not

looking at me once.

When we reached the estate, I headed straight for the kitchen. Maybe if I baked a new batch, maybe if I proved-

“Don’t bother.” Blake’s voice stopped me. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

He walked past me toward his study. Stopped at the door.

“Next time you want to embarrass me in front of the Grants,” he said without turning around, “try to be less obvious about it.”

The door closed. The lock clicked.

I stood there holding burnt cookies that weren’t mine, blamed for a sabotage I didn’t commit, defended by a man who wasn’t my husband.

Welcome to my life.

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