Chapter 25 – Hidden Agenda
Isabel’s POV
As we drove toward Emerson’s villa, I couldn’t shake the growing confusion gnawing at me. Why was he so obsessed with my illness? The man who had shattered my heart, who had chosen someone ‘else over me, was now determined to drag me to his private doctor.
It was absurd, almost laughable. The same man who had betrayed our marriage was now so concerned about his ex–wife. I didn’t know whether to be angry, amused, or just plain tired of the emotional rollercoaster he kept putting me on.
“Stop the car,” I demanded, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.
Emerson didn’t even glance my way. “Don’t be stubborn, Isabel,” he said, his tone as cool and unyielding as ever. “We’re almost there.”
I clenched my fists in my lap. Frustration bubbled up inside me. “I don’t need your help, Emerson. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He ignored me. His focus was fixed on the road. “Eric will be there with the doctor. I want to see what’s wrong with you,” he said, as if that settled the matter.
I couldn’t believe the nerve of this man. He had no right to decide anything for me anymore. Yet here he was, playing the role of a protective ex–husband. As if he hadn’t completely destroyed my
trust.
When we finally arrived at his villa, I was ready to jump out of the car and run. But Emerson was faster. As I unfastened my seatbelt, he rushed out of the car. He opened my door before I could even reach for the handle.
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He took my hand and guided me out of the car. His gentle, caring touch felt foreign, almost unsettling.
A maid appeared at the door. Her eyes widened with curiosity as she took in my soot–stained clothes and Emerson’s stern expression. “Help Miss Isabel change into something clean,” he instructed her. His voice left no room for argument.
I glared at him, but I was too tired to protest. The maid led me upstairs to a guest room where she handed me a soft cotton dress. It was simple, but luxurious. Anything was better than the dirty, torn clothes I’d been wearing. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was some twisted way for Emerson to erase the life I had struggled to build on my own.
After I changed, I found myself standing in the doorway of the master bedroom. My breath caught in my throat. Emerson was there, his upper body bare, revealing deep gashes and burns on his back. Did he get hurt like this to save me?
He noticed me and turned slightly, his blue eyes meeting mine.” Isabel,” he said, his voice gruff, “I need your help with something.”
I hesitated, then nodded and stepped into the room. As much as I hated to admit it, there was still a part of me that wanted to help him, to ease his pain. Even after everything he’d put me through.
He gestured to the cloth stuck to his wounds. Remnants of his shirt had fused with the raw, burned skin. I swallowed hard. My heart. pounded as I realized that these injuries were because of me. Because he had charged into that burning building to save me.
Silently, I moved closer. I started carefully peeling away the cloth from his wounds. He clenched his jaw whenever I tore a piece away. The air between us was thick with unspoken words.
I tried to focus on the task at hand, but my mind kept drifting to the
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way his skin felt under my fingers. The way he flinched slightly but stayed silent, enduring the pain without complaint. There was still some attraction between us. But I couldn’t let it cloud my vision. He had been nothing but rude and horrible to me, despite the fact that he saved my life.
“Why did you do it?” I finally asked, breaking the silence. My voice .was softer than I intended, almost a whisper.
He snorted, the sound harsh and dismissive. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered. “I didn’t do it for you. I just can’t stand the idea of having such a foolish, weak ex–wife.”
His words stung and made me angry. How dare he talk to me like that after everything? I pressed down on his wound a little harder than necessary, watching as he hissed in pain. “I appreciate your help,” I said, my voice icy, “but that doesn’t give you the right to disrespect me.”
He turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto mine. There was a flicker of something in his gaze–regret, maybe?-but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said quietly. “I need professional care for these wounds. I’ll have the doctor look at them.”
“I’ll go get the medical kit,” I said, my tone more neutral now. I needed some distance, some space to breathe. I remembered he kept a first aid kit in his study before. I hoped it would still be there.
When I entered the study, I found the kit right where I remembered it. But as I turned to leave, something on his computer screen caught my eye. An email had popped up, the subject line bold and urgent.
“Sir, I’ve collected more evidence about Allen White’s crimes. Do you still need it?”
bricks. Emerson had been investigating my father. As if he was some kind of criminal! How dare he hurt my father?!