Chapter 6

ELLA

Sunlight hit my face through unfamiliar curtains. I blinked awake, disoriented in Jack's guest bedroom. My phone showed 2:30 PM and three missed calls from Richard Blake-- my biological father. Fantastic. Just what my day needed.

I wrapped myself in a silk robe from the closet and padded to the kitchen. My stomach growled - I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten. As I made a sandwich, my phone rang again. Richard. The man who'd never once called to check on me during five years of living under his roof.

"Hello, Richard."

"Where the hell are you?" His voice sliced through the line. "Your mother and I have been trying to reach you since last night."

I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to remind him he'd never cared about my whereabouts before. "I'm fine, thank you for asking."

Richard launched into a tirade about the scandal I'd caused—missing Ryan's engagement party only to show up and create a scene. The audacity stunned me. My fiancé was getting engaged to my sister at an event I wasn't even invited to. When I pointed this out, he coldly corrected me: "Ex-fiancé," as if that title transfer had happened weeks ago instead of days.

His next words hit harder than a physical blow. "And then what? Running off with that wheelchair-bound Sterling? How could you hook up with that cripple?"

My fingers tightened around the phone, anger rushing through my veins at his contempt. "Don't call him that."

The accusations kept coming - Ryan telling everyone I'd cheated for months, pursuing Jack for his money. The lies made my voice echo through the empty kitchen as I defended myself. Then came a message - a photo of Jack and me in the parking lot, his arm around my waist, looking intimate.

"Your sister explained everything," Richard continued. "She said you've been jealous of their relationship for years."

"Kate has always been more of a Blake than you'll ever be."

The familiar wound reopened. Five years, and still the outsider. I hung up without another word, refusing to let him hear the tremor in my voice. The tears wouldn't fall - I wouldn't give them that satisfaction. Instead, I buried myself in medical research until darkness claimed the penthouse.

A firm knock at my bedroom door startled me hours later.

"Ella." Jack's voice carried authority even through solid wood. "Open the door. We need to talk."

My heart skipped. Something about his commanding tone sent contradictory signals through my body - irritation mixing with an unwelcome flutter. I quickly applied my prosthetic scar, protecting myself even in private. Just three hours ago, we'd had our first real argument. I'd suggested splitting our daily expenses - groceries, my toiletries, even offering to pay rent. His face had darkened instantly.

"You think I need your money?" he'd asked, voice dangerously quiet.

"It's not about need," I'd countered. "It's about independence. I won't be kept."

The way he'd wheeled away without another word told me I'd touched a nerve. But honestly, what did he expect? That I'd happily let a virtual stranger cover everything? That I'd be his charity case? The mere suggestion of financial boundaries had triggered something in him I couldn't understand.

Twenty-eight days suddenly seemed eternal. I pulled the blanket tighter, determined to avoid another confrontation. Why should such a reasonable request make him angry? Rich men and their fragile egos. Maybe that was the real disability worth discussing.

I called back that I wasn't opening the door, that I needed sleep. When he threatened to override the lock, claiming ownership of the apartment, I reminded him of his promise about respecting my personal space. The silence that followed felt weighted.

Then came another knock - gentler, belonging to Marcus. He explained that Jack was suffering from a migraine episode in the study. My medical instincts kicked in immediately, overriding all irritation. Without hesitation, I grabbed my kit and hurried toward the study.

Jack sat hunched at his desk, head pressed against polished wood, knuckles white with strain. "Ella," he whispered without looking up, "it hurts..."

His vulnerability demolished my defenses. I moved to his side, my fingers finding his temples with practiced precision. I murmured instructions about breathing slowly and focusing on my touch.

My fingers worked methodically across his scalp and down his neck, applying pressure to specific points that would interrupt the pain signals. The tension in his muscles gradually eased beneath my hands.

After fifteen minutes, Jack straightened, color returning to his face. "Thank you. You're the only one who can make it stop."

Something in his gaze made me step back. Suddenly hyper-aware of our proximity, of my thin robe, of the electric current between us. I busied myself with my kit, downplaying my assistance as simple pressure point therapy.

His hand caught mine, warm and unexpectedly gentle. "Don't ignore me anymore, okay?"

Coming from a man who commanded everything around him, the request sounded almost vulnerable. I struggled to maintain my composure as his touch sent tingles up my arm. When I claimed I'd been busy rather than avoiding him, his thumb traced small circles on my wrist, breaking down my resolve.

"Is this place really such a prison to you?" he asked.

The question hit a nerve. I admitted it felt like jumping from one cage to another. When he asked what would make it feel less restrictive, I laid out my terms: respect for boundaries, no entering my room without permission, no dictating my schedule, no treating me as a possession.

His expression hardened slightly. "And if I agree?"

"Then I'll keep my promise. Twenty-eight more days."

He nodded once. "Done."

Back in my room, I collapsed onto the bed, wondering what I was doing here with this enigmatic man who could shift from commanding to vulnerable in moments.

Two weeks passed in careful avoidance. Jack left early, returned late. We communicated through notes left on the kitchen counter - his handwriting strong and decisive, mine neat and measured.

On the fifteenth day, Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, approached me at lunch.

"Ms. Blake, I've restocked your bathroom. Would you like more feminine hygiene products next week?"

My fork froze midway to my mouth. When was my last period? I mentally counted back to... the night at the hotel. Jack had said we'd been intimate. Without protection.

My heart hammering against my ribs, I rushed to the nearest pharmacy, bought two pregnancy tests, and followed the instructions with trembling hands.

Two minutes stretched endlessly.

Two pink lines appeared on both tests. Positive.

I sank to the bathroom floor, my world tilting sideways. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not with him.