Chapter 244

She frowned, her voice strained. “Andrew Lane, have you been drinking?”
Andrew didn’t answer her question. His voice was low and rough. “Didn’t I tell you not to make things difficult for Isabella?”
Emily Blair’s fists tightened as she forced a cold smile. “How did I make things difficult for her? All I did was release the security footage.”
Andrew’s grip on her chin tightened, his tone dropping to a dangerous warning. “Emily Blair, you’ve got some nerve. Even right in front of me, you dare move against Isabella.”
His voice was quiet and ordinary, but it sent a chill straight through her.
They were standing far too close. Emily’s breath came short; she could hardly breathe.
She raised her fist and slammed it hard against Andrew’s shoulder. “Let go of me!”
He ignored her, stepping forward until she was pinned between him and the wall, completely trapped. There was nowhere to go, and their bodies were pressed together. Their breaths mingled, hot and ragged.
The reek of alcohol on Andrew’s breath was overwhelming.
Emily ducked her head, flustered, but Andrew forced her chin up again.
She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that if she opened them, she’d find his eyes just inches away from hers.
She didn’t want to be this close to Andrew Lane.
It brought back memories of another life, of those suffocating, chaotic days when she was little more than Andrew’s kept secret.
He leaned in, lowering his head, his breath hot on her cheek.
“Emily Blair,” he murmured, “tell me how should I punish you?”
“Hm? Should I make use of my privileges as your sponsor right now?”
Her scalp prickled; for a moment she forgot how to breathe. Her fingers curled so tightly her nails nearly broke the skin of her palm.
He was threatening her—with the Starlight Piano Competition.
Emily could endure whatever Andrew did, however he chose to stand up for Isabella Austin. But the competition was different.
It was her one chance to clear Vivian Martin’s name, to break any lingering ties between Vivian and Isabella Austin-her only chance, and she couldn’t let it end here.
She had to make the finals. She had to become a frontrunner, alongside Isabella.
Andrew Lane couldn’t touch her chance at the competition. She wouldn’t allow it— she couldn’t.
She knew that if he decided to interfere, no matter how upright or fair the organizers were, they’d never be able to stand up to Andrew Lane’s influence.
The thought chilled her. If he intervened, it would all be over. No way forward.
That wasn’t the ending she’d fought for.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes, her vision swimming, unable to focus on his face.
Her voice came out hoarse. “Andrew Lane, let me make you some hangover soup. It’s been a long time since you’ve had my recipe, hasn’t it? Do you remember how it tastes?”
For a moment, Andrew was motionless.
Emily steeled herself, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is your head hurting again? Let me help.”
Still, he said nothing.
Just as she thought her attempt to placate him had failed, Andrew abruptly let go of her chin and stepped back.
Click.
The lights in the room blazed on, harsh and bright. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, unable to adjust.
As she did, Andrew’s voice came through, cold and rough. “You have half an hour. I want that soup in half an hour.”
Relief washed over her. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “I won’t need half an hour-I’ll be right back.”
Emily turned and rushed out the door.
Outside, the hallway was crowded with contestants. Arianna George was among them.
As soon as Emily appeared, every eye turned to her, searching for evidence that Andrew Lane had hurt her.
Arianna hurried over, grabbing Emily’s arm and looking her over. “Emily, are you okay? He didn’t do anything, did he?”
Emily shook her head. “I’m fine, really. But I have something urgent to do—sorry, I can’t talk right now.”
Without another word, she hurried away, leaving the others bewildered in the corridor.
Emily dashed to the hotel kitchen.
Ordinarily, a luxury hotel’s kitchen would be strictly off-limits to outsiders. But perhaps Andrew had given advance notice, because the head chef simply stopped her, asked her name, then handed her a cap and mask, ushering her inside.
Emily put them on, found the ingredients and cooking utensils she needed, and quickly set to work, preparing the hangover soup with practiced hands.
Fifteen minutes later, it was done.
She carefully ladled the steaming soup into a bowl, set it on a tray, and carried it back to the room.
When she returned, the hallway was empty.
No hesitation-she pushed open the door and stepped inside.
There he was, sitting on the sofa with his back to her, head leaning against the seat, one hand pressed to his forehead.
Emily walked softly to the coffee table, set the soup down in front of him, and said quietly, “It’s still hot. Be careful.”
Andrew didn’t look at her. He just rubbed his forehead and let out a long breath. Emily, determined to see this through, handed him a spoon.
When she’d done all she could, she moved behind him and gently took his hand away from his forehead, replacing it with her own.
Her slender, pale fingers pressed lightly to his temples, kneading slowly.
She’d done this for him many times before; she knew exactly where to press, how much pressure he liked.
Without thinking, Emily let herself fall into the rhythm, her eyes lowered as she watched Andrew slowly finish the soup she’d made him. Before long, the bowl was empty.
She asked softly, “Was it good? Does your head still hurt?”
“Just focus. Don’t talk.”
Andrew set the empty bowl down, closed his eyes, and let her continue, surrendering to her hands.
Emily obeyed, falling silent, and concentrated on her massage.