CHAPTER THREE

|| Aaron's POV ||

I'd been awake all night.

The guilt had gnawed at me with every passing hour—sitting in Anastasia's apartment while my wife was in labor, my phone buzzing with missed calls and messages from Mrs. Rivera that I'd ignored because I'd needed to escape.

To be with someone who actually wanted me there.

Someone who didn't look at me like a meal ticket or a target.

But when I'd finally checked my phone at dawn and saw Mrs. Rivera's frantic messages—"Mrs. Styles went into labor... she's bleeding a lot, so we rushed her to the hospital..."—something cold had settled in my stomach.

I should have been there.

Whatever else was true, whatever schemes Isabella and her brother had pulled, she'd been alone and bleeding while bringing my child into the world.

That guilt was why I'd driven straight to the hospital.

Why I'd asked Anastasia to come with me for support but told her to wait in the car initially. Why I'd stood outside Isabella's hospital room door for five full minutes, trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to say.

I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you almost died alone. I'm sorry I hate you so much I couldn't even answer your calls.

But then I heard Matthew's voice through the door.

"I managed it once, didn't I? I can do it again."

The words turned everything inside me to stone. Any flicker of remorse, any softening I'd felt—gone. Replaced by the cold certainty that I'd been right about them all along. The Stone siblings were just nothing but schemers and manipulators.

Of course they were already plotting the next move.

I pushed the door open, and Matthew's face—that carefully crafted mask of brotherly concern—froze when he saw me.

Good.

Anastasia's hand was still on my arm. I should have told her to wait outside, but part of me wanted Isabella to see. Wanted her to understand that whatever illusions she'd harbored about this marriage, about me, were just that. Illusions.

My eyes found Isabella in the hospital bed. She looked small, diminished somehow, her dark hair dull against the white pillows. Her arms were wrapped around a pink bundle—my daughter, I realized with a strange jolt—and her face was tear-stained, her eyes wide and wounded.

Stop it, I told myself. Don't fall for it.

She was good at this. Looking fragile. Looking hurt. It's how she'd gotten under my skin that night at the party, with those frightened eyes when I'd pulled that bastard off her. I'd actually believed she needed protecting.

Then Matthew's face transformed into a mask of righteous fury.

"Aaron Styles." His voice was sharp and accusatory. "Finally decided to show up, did you? After your wife nearly died giving birth to your daughter? After she bled out on the delivery table while you were God knows where doing God knows what?"

"What happens between me and my wife is none of your concern, Stone."

"None of my concern?" Matthew's voice rose, his face flushing. "She's my sister! My sister, who almost died last night because you couldn't be bothered to answer your phone! My sister, who went through labor alone and terrified because her husband was too busy—" his eyes cut to Anastasia with barely disguised contempt "—to be there for her!"

"Matthew, please—" Isabella's voice was weak, barely above a whisper, but he ignored her.

"How could you do this?" Matthew continued, his voice shaking with what sounded like genuine anger. "Not even being there for your wife on the day she gave birth? She had a postpartum hemorrhage, Aaron! She could have died! And you show up hours later looking like you just rolled out of bed, and you have the audacity—the absolute audacity—to bring another woman with you?"

He gestured sharply at Anastasia, who stiffened beside me.

"Do you have any respect for Isabella at all? Any shred of decency? She's your wife! The mother of your child! And you treat her like—like she's nothing! Like she doesn't even deserve the basic courtesy of your presence when she's fighting for her life!"

Each word landed like a blow, and I felt my jaw tightening, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

The guilt I was feeling earlier was being rapidly consumed by rage.

"You want to talk about respect?" My voice came out cold, deadly calm. "You want to stand there and lecture me about how to treat my wife when you and your sister are the reason this nightmare of a marriage exists in the first place?"

"Aaron—" Anastasia touched my arm, but I shook her off.

"If I remember correctly, Matthew," I continued, my voice dropping to something dangerous, "it was you and Isabella who plotted against me. Who drugged my drink at that party? Who orchestrated this entire scheme to trap me into marriage because your pathetic, failing company needed the Styles family money to survive?"

"That's not—" Matthew started, but I cut him off.

"Don't you dare stand there and play the concerned brother when you're the one who whored out your own sister to save your father's company. You and Isabella—you're both cunning, treacherous manipulators, and now you have the balls to turn around and blame me? To act like I'm the villain in this story?"

"You don't understand—" Matthew's face had gone pale.

"I'm done listening to the Stone family lies." I gestured sharply toward the door. "Get out. Get out of this room, get out of this hospital, and get the hell out of my sight before I do something we'll both regret."

"You can't just—"

"I can, and I will." My voice was ice now. "And if you don't leave immediately, Matthew, I will terminate every single contract between Styles Industries and the Stone Group. I will pull every investment, every partnership, every dollar that's keeping your company afloat. Is that what you want? To destroy what little your father has left?"

Matthew's face went from pale to ashen. His mouth opened and closed, no words coming out.

"That's what I thought." I moved to the door and pulled it open wider. "Get out."

For a moment, I thought he might argue. Might try to defend himself or Isabella. But then his shoulders slumped, and he looked past me to where his sister sat in the hospital bed, clutching her baby.

"Isabella, I'm sorry. I was just trying to—"

"She doesn't want to hear it," I said coldly. "And neither do I. Leave. Now."

Matthew shot me one last look—something between hatred and defeat—before he walked out, his footsteps echoing down the hospital corridor.

I closed the door behind him with controlled force and turned back to the room.

Anastasia was standing near the window, looking uncomfortable.

I turned my attention to the woman in the bed. She was crying now, silent tears streaming down her pale cheeks, her body shaking slightly. The baby—my daughter—squirmed in her arms, making small sounds.

That strange feeling twisted in my chest again. She looked so broken. So genuinely devastated.

Acting, I reminded myself harshly. She's acting.

But beneath the certainty, something else whispered. Something that sounded treacherously like doubt.

I crushed that too.

"Stop it," I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm. "Stop with the tears, the trembling, and the wounded innocent act. You and your brother went to considerable trouble scheming against me. The least you can do is own it instead of playing the victim."

Isabella's head snapped up. Her eyes—those damned expressive eyes—were filled with something that looked like genuine anguish.

"I never schemed against you," she said, her voice breaking, barely audible. "I didn't know what Matthew did. I would never—"

"I don't have to believe anything," I said impatiently, cutting her off with a dismissive wave. "And frankly, Isabella, I don't care anymore. I don't care about your explanations or your excuses or whatever version of events you've convinced yourself is true."

More tears spilled down her cheeks, and the baby in her arms stirred slightly, making a small sound.

"Regardless of how we got here, the facts remain the same," I continued, my voice cold and businesslike. "You married me. You received the title of Mrs. Styles. You got everything—my name, my house, my money, and the social status that comes with being part of this family. And I invested heavily in the Stone Group, saving your father's pathetic, failing company from complete bankruptcy. I've done more than enough. More than you or your brother had any right to expect."

"Aaron, please—" Isabella's voice was weak, trembling.

"I don't want to be manipulated by you and your scheming brother anymore. I'm done with this charade. I'm done with this marriage. I'm done with all of it."

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the document I'd been carrying—the papers my lawyers had prepared weeks ago, just waiting for the right moment.

I walked to the bed and threw the papers down in front of her, watching them land on the blanket beside where she clutched our daughter.

"We are getting divorced, Isabella. I already signed the papers, and you have 48 hours to sign and return them to me."