The CEO's Regret: His Lost Wife's Secret Twins novel Chapter 72

Chapter 72

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The ride back to Hampton estate was silent. Aria clutched that container of burnt cookies, staring out the window. She hadn’t looked at

me once since we left the Grants’.

I followed her into the house, watching as she headed for the kitchen. No goodbye. No explanation. Just those damned cookies and her

stubborn silence.

I needed a drink. Or a cigar. Or both.

The terrace was empty, thank God. I pulled out a cigar from the copper humidor. Cuban, expensive, saved for special occasions. The last

time I’d lit one of these was at the lawyer’s office, discussing divorce papers.

Now here I was again, smoking because of the same woman.

The flame caught. I took a deep drag, letting the smoke burn my throat.

What the hell had happened at that lunch? Aria’s cookies were burnt and awful. Emma’s were perfect. But Redwood’s reaction…

My phone buzzed. Emma.

Emma: [Blake, I’m sorry about lunch. I didn’t mean to show Aria up like that.]

I stared at the text. Didn’t mean to? She’d pulled out those cookies like a magician revealing a trick.

Emma: [I know things are complicated with you two. I just wanted to help.]

Emma: [Can we talk? I’m at the studio. Extra practice session.]

Extra practice. At 5 PM on a Saturday.

Blake: [You should rest. Don’t overwork yourself.]

Emma: (I need to perfect this routine. The fall showcase is in two months.]

Emma: [Besides, dancing helps me think.]

I crushed the cigar in the ashtray and headed inside. Aria was in the kitchen, methodically washing the container. Her movements were mechanical, precise. Like she was trying not to feel anything.

“I’m going out,” I said.

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Chapter 72

She didn’t turn around. “Okay.”

‘Emma’s at the studio. She’s pushing herself too hard.”

“Then maybe you should stop her.”

The words were flat, emotionless. Worse than anger.

“Aria-

:

“Have a good evening, Blake.” She dried the container carefully. “Don’t worry about dinner. I’m not hungry anyway.”

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I should’ve said something. Explained. Asked about the cookies. But the memory of her fingers brushing Redwood’s when she handed him

water burned in my mind.

I left.

The studio was on the third floor of an old building in SoHo. I’d bought it for Emma two years ago, before everything went to hell. Private

space for private practice.

Music echoed down the hallway. Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake.

I opened the door quietly. Emma was center stage, her body moving with liquid grace. Arabesque, pirouette, grand jeté. Each movement

perfect, controlled.

But something was off. She was pushing too hard, jumping too high, spinning too fast.

‘Emma.”

She didn’t hear me. Or ignored me. Another jeté, landing hard enough to make me wince.

‘Emma, stop.

She spun into a fouetté series. One, two, three. Her ankle buckled. She went down hard.

“Fuck!” I was across the floor in seconds. “Are you insane?’

‘I’m fine. She tried to stand. Her leg gave out.

I caught her before she hit the ground again. “You’re not fine. You can barely stand.”

“I need to practice.” Tears streamed down her face. “The showcase-

“Screw the showcase.” I lifted her carefully. “We’re going to the hospital.”

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Chapter 72

“No! Blake, please-

“Now.”

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She collapsed against my chest, sobbing. ‘I saw you two. At lunch. The way you sat next to her. Protected her. You never sit that close to

her.

My arms tightened involuntarily. “Emma-

“You’re changing. Since she came back, you’re different with her. Softer. More attentive. Her voice broke. “Are you falling for her?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” She looked up at me with those doe eyes. “You chose her over me three years ago. You’re choosing her again now.”

“I’m not choosing anyone. I’m stuck in a situation I can’t control.”

“Then leave her.” Her fingers clutched my shirt. “Divorce her. Be with me. Like we planned.

Like we planned. Before Aria. Before the contract. Before everything turned into this complicated mess.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.” She touched my face with trembling hands. “Blake, I’ve waited too many years. Watching you marry her, live with her, while 1

– She broke off with a sob. “Do you know what it’s like? Loving someone who belongs to someone else?”

Yes. I knew exactly what that felt like.

“Let’s get you checked out first,’ I said, avoiding the question. “Then we’ll talk.”

Redwood Medical Center was quiet for a Saturday evening. Dr. Smith met us at the emergency entrance herself. The perks of being a

major donor.

‘Mr. Morgan. She shook my hand firmly. “What happened?”

‘Practice injury. Her ankle gave out during a jump.”

Emma whimpered as they transferred her to a wheelchair. Dr. Smith’s expression darkened.

‘Miss Grant, we’ve discussed this. You need to rest that old injury, not aggravate it.”

“I’m fine,” Emma insisted weakly.

“You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine since the original trauma ten years ago.” She turned to me. “Mr. Morgan, I need to run some tests.

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This could be serious.

Three hours later, I was still in that waiting room. Emma was in X-ray. Dr. Smith had mentioned possible ligament damage, potential

surgery.

My phone buzzed. Aria.

Aria: [Will you be home for dinner?]

I stared at the text. She knew where I was. She had to know.

Blake: [No. At the hospital with Emma. Don’t wait up.]

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Aria: [Okay.]

That’s it. Just okay.

Not “I hope she’s alright” or “Do you need anything” or even “Fuck you for choosing her again.”

Just okay.

“Mr. Morgan?”

Dr. Smith appeared, her face grave. “I need to speak with you. Privately.”

We stepped into a consultation room. She pulled up X-rays on the screen.

“The damage is extensive,’ she said. “Old scar tissue from the original injury has been aggravated. Add in today’s trauma, and we’re looking at possible permanent damage.”

“Permanent?’

*If she doesn’t get proper care and rest, she may never dance professionally again.”

The words hit like bullets. Emma’s whole life was dance. Her identity. Her purpose.

“What does she need?”

*Surgery to repair the ligaments. Six months of physical therapy. Complete rest from dancing for at least a year.” She paused. ‘And emotional support, Mr. Morgan. Stress and anxiety are major contributing factors. She needs stability. Someone who won’t abandon her.”

Someone who won’t abandon her.

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I thought of Emma sobbing in my arms.

I thought of Aria in that kitchen, washing containers with dead eyes.

I’ll make sure she dances again,” I heard myself say. “That’s my promise to her. For life.”

Dr. Smith nodded approvingly. ‘She’s lucky to have you.”

Was she? Or was I just a man who couldn’t let go of guilt?

The door opened. A nurse appeared. “Mr. Morgan? Miss Grant is asking for you.”

I stood. Dr. Smith clasped my shoulder. “She needs you now more than ever.”

As I walked toward Emma’s room, I thought I saw a familiar figure at the end of the hallway. Dark hair, green eyes, hand pressed to her

stomach.

But when I looked again, she was gone.

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