Chapter 8 Meanwhile, in her opulent room, Riley paced in restless agitation, her fingers twisting the hem of her silk robe. Her phone buzzed, a sharp interruption, and she seized it, her pulse quickening at Logan’s name. But as the video message played, her excitement curdled into horror, color leaching from her face. The footage was stark—surveillance from the club, capturing every move. She hadn’t counted on eyes within those gilded walls. Logan’s call pierced the quiet soon after, and Riley steadied her racing pulse before answering, her voice a silken thread of rehearsed sweetness. “Logan…”
“What’s that video about?” His question cut through, sharp and unyielding.
“What video?” she purred, feigning innocence. “You were drunk, and I was just wiping your face.” A cold dread slithered through her veins, coiling tight. She’d choreographed the hallway scene to frame Eleanor, certain no cameras lurked there. The private room’s hidden surveillance had blindsided her, a betrayal of her meticulous design.
“Was that closeness necessary for a wipe?” Logan’s displeasure rumbled through the line, a storm brewing. “From the doorway, it looked like a kiss. No wonder Eleanor saw it that way.” He reclined in his office chair, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke, his tone measured yet edged with frost.
Riley’s teeth grazed her lip, a nervous tic. “I was only caring for you. Eleanor showing up and misreading it wasn’t my plan…” Her words trembled, a fragile shield.
“I value honesty, Riley,” Logan said, his voice an arctic blade. “I’ve dug into it. You arranged for Eleanor to be there—you wanted her to see us.” Smoke curled upward as he spoke, a slow dance of gray against the dim light.
“Logan, I never—” she began, but he silenced her protest.
“The club manager’s gone,” he continued, his words cutting deeper. “No more games. Whatever the situation, Eleanor’s my wife. I won’t have staged drama tearing at my family.”
Riley’s chest tightened with indignation. “Even if she misjudged it, her shoving me wasn’t fair, was it?” Her voice quivered, seeking sympathy.
“You set the stage,” Logan countered coolly. “Her reaction was natural. You’re unharmed—let it drop.” His dismissal was a slap, measured but firm.
Shock rippled through her, a tide of disbelief. Logan was sifting truth from lies, not blindly shielding her as he always had. Her fingers twisted into her dress, nails biting fabric. “Logan, do you… care for Eleanor now?” Her breath hitched, dread lacing the question.
“You’re overthinking,” he replied, swift and unhesitating.
Relief flooded her, a warm rush chasing the chill. “I understand. I won’t pull anything like that again.”
“Good,” he said, the word clipped.
“Logan,” she pressed, her tone softening, “is Eleanor pushing divorce because she’s done giving me blood? Does she want me dead?” Her voice dipped, a calculated plea.
He inhaled deeply, smoke swirling. “I’m fast-tracking Dr. Theodore Vaughn. Once he cures you—your legs, your health—Eleanor’s blood won’t matter. You’ll walk again, live fully.”
“Logan, you’re too good to me…” Riley ended the call, joy blooming across her face like spring after frost. She’d been paranoid—how could Logan love a tarnished soul like Eleanor? Yet, until her recovery, Eleanor had to go. Three years as Mrs. Barrett was more than she deserved—that crown was Riley’s alone.
Dawn’s tender light seeped through the curtains as Eleanor stirred, the familiar contours of Serenity Villa’s master bedroom greeting her. Logan lay beside her, his striking features softened in sleep, a rare vulnerability etched in repose. Her gaze drifted lower—she wore a silk camisole, its cool fabric whispering against her skin. Heat surged to her cheeks, a flush of embarrassment. But as she tuned into her body, no echoes of intimacy lingered. Logan hadn’t touched her last night. Relief washed over her, a quiet tide easing her tension.
She shifted to rise, but his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her close until their breaths mingled, faces inches apart. “You’re awake?” His voice, husky with sleep, wove a dangerous allure, stirring old embers. “Did you sleep well?”
“Let go,” she said, pushing against his hold, her tone firm despite the tremor within.
A smirk danced on his lips, teasing. “Let go? Last night, you nestled into me like you couldn’t get close enough.” His eyes glinted, playful yet piercing.
“That’s nonsense!” she snapped, her voice rising.
“Is it?” he countered, arching a brow. “You forget how you cling in bed.” His words dripped with knowing, a reminder of past surrenders.
Crimson crept to her ears, a flush she couldn’t quell. “That was before!” In their tenderest moments, she’d gripped him fiercely, chasing the illusion of ownership, begging him to linger. Now, the club’s memory flared—Logan and Riley entwined—and she recoiled, shoving him away with a force born of betrayal.
“Still mad?” He reached for his phone, pulling up a video with a flick of his thumb. “Watch.”
Her eyes locked on the screen, widening as the footage played—Logan, Riley, a moment misread. She froze, stunned. “I didn’t kiss her,” he said, drawing her near, his breath a warm caress against her ear. “Keeping you satisfied fills my nights—why would I need anyone else?” His tone was velvet, sensual, a lure she once craved.
Heat blazed across her face as she tore free, fleeing to the bathroom. She bent over the sink, splashing cold water on her cheeks, desperate to still her pounding heart. Three years, and he’d never explained himself—until now. But what did it change? Riley’s shadow loomed, an unyielding wall, and he’d rejected the child she carried. She emerged, composed, to find him gone, the room hollow without his presence.
Downstairs, Chloe greeted her, warmth in her smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Barrett. Breakfast’s ready.”
“No, thanks,” Eleanor murmured, turning away.
“Mr. Barrett isn’t here,” Chloe said gently. “You both slept late—he dashed to a meeting, skipped his meal.”
Eleanor relented, following her to the dining room. As Chloe set down oatmeal, she ventured, “Mrs. Barrett, I don’t think Mr. Barrett wants this divorce. Does he really not want the baby?”
“I’ve no cause to lie,” Eleanor replied, spooning the warm grains, her calm a thin mask. “He said my pregnancy would stop me from giving blood to Riley.”
Chloe’s face flared with outrage. “That Miss Dawson—she targets you, snubs blood banks, demands yours alone. It’s absurd!”
A faint smile ghosted Eleanor’s lips. “Either way, my donor days are over. I’m done bleeding for her.”
Chloe faltered. “But alone, with a child, after divorce…”
“I’ll manage,” Eleanor said, her gaze softening to her abdomen, still flat but alive with promise. “I’ll find work, give my baby everything.”
Her phone rang, a lifeline—an interview invite from a private hospital. Hope sparked, bright and fragile. She finished quickly and left, only to find the address led not to a sterile ward but a quiet café. Inside, it was nearly empty, save for Riley by the window, a solitary figure framed in soft light.
Recognition hit, and Eleanor turned to leave, but Riley’s voice cut sharp. “Walk out now, Eleanor, and no job in Elesrora will take you. Want to test me?”
She stopped, pivoting slowly. “What do you want?”
“Sit,” Riley said, sipping coffee with deliberate ease. “Drink? My treat.”
Eleanor crossed to the table, sitting stiffly. “I’m not thirsty.”
Riley savored her brew, her tone languid yet pointed. “My uncle runs that hospital. Your record would bury you, but one word from me could lift you up.”
“Keep your fake kindness,” Eleanor said, her voice flat as stone. “I don’t want it.”
Riley’s laugh was cold, hollow. “Not job-hunting, then? Another stunt to snag Logan’s pity?”
“I’m not you, scheming at every turn,” Eleanor replied, steady. “I want the divorce—it’s real. Mrs. Barrett is yours soon enough.”
“Funny,” Riley sneered, her chuckle a venomous trill. “That title’s always been mine. You’re pitiful, Eleanor. Three years married, and Logan still loves me. Yesterday, he swore he feels nothing for you. You’ve failed as Mrs. Barrett.”
The words stabbed deep, splintering Eleanor’s heart like glass underfoot. She had failed—failed to claim his love, failed to make him care for their child. If Riley bore his baby, he’d be alight with joy. Swallowing her pain, she forced out, “Then convince him to hurry the divorce. I won’t block you.”
“Without your blood, he’d have ditched you long ago,” Riley said, her brows arching. “Once Dr. Theodore fixes me, you’re out. Until then, you’re the Barrett’ loyal blood bank.”
