Emily Blair stared into space, lost in thought.
What was this supposed to be?
Last night, he’d forced her to drink ten shots of hard liquor, and now he was pulling this. Was this some twisted version of “a slap, then a sweet treat”? First he hurts her, then tries to make up for it?
The word “mistress” had barely left her lips when Andrew Lane went quiet. A heartbeat later, he pulled away from her, taking his sharp, pine-scented cologne with him.
Emily hugged her mug to her chest, curling up beneath the covers.
Andrew’s low voice drifted through the sheets.
“Who said you’re anyone’s mistress?”
Emily let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Well, I wish you and Ms. Austin a happy life—and plenty of kids.”
She pulled the blanket over her head, shutting out the world.
She didn’t hear Andrew answer—just the sound of his footsteps as he left, and one final sentence, tossed back at her.
“Don’t forget to drink your soup.”
Only after she heard the hospital door open and close did Emily emerge from her cocoon.
Carefully avoiding the IV in her left hand, she sat up and looked at the steaming mug of chicken soup on her nightstand.
The oily, savory scent made her stomach turn. Nausea rose in her throat.
Frowning, she slid out of bed and scooped up the insulated container, heading for the bathroom. She’d barely made it to the door when Elizabeth Wilson bustled in with her ever-present sidekick.
Elizabeth caught sight of Emily’s retreating back. “What are you doing out of bed?”
Without turning around, Emily muttered, “I’m not that fragile.”
Elizabeth’s footsteps padded closer, her head peeking around the doorway. “Are you about to toss out that soup? You’re really not going to drink it?”
Emily hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, her tone serious. “Just the smell makes me sick. I can’t keep it down.”
Elizabeth made a face, rushing over to snatch the thermos from her hands.

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