All Chapters of Married To A Hot Comatose Billionaire : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

"Richard, has the situation with Emily's video been fully contained? It won't affect the company or the listing, will it?" Victoria asked, arranging his collar with practiced hands and a practiced look of worry.Richard patted her shoulder. "Don't concern yourself. I have it handled."As long as Emily didn't produce evidence, the matter was essentially over. All he was waiting for now was her public apology.What nagged at him was the silence. Two days of heavy coverage, coordinated pressure, a legal threat — and Emily had said nothing. No defense, no counter-post, no statement.Richard had told himself this meant she had nothing.He was starting to wonder if it meant something else entirely."I ran into Diana yesterday," Victoria said lightly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his lapel. "She mentioned she was handling the PR side of things. I hope she isn't overdoing it.""That woman has no sense of occasion." Richard shook his head. "Bringing up business when you're trying to enjoy

Kellan said nothing to Dr. Bennett about the voice connection. Even if Emily's voice had a measurable effect on his condition, he had no intention of using her that way. She was inconvenient enough as it was. The last thing he needed was to become dependent on her presence. He had decided he was done pretending tonight. The moment she walked through that door, he was going to open his eyes and end this arrangement. Roland had left before eight to pick her up. By midnight, neither of them had returned. Kellan stared at the ceiling. He was not concerned. He simply found it irritating that his driver had apparently forgotten who employed him. Then the door opened. The footsteps were wrong. Too many people. Too much noise. He heard his grandfather's voice first. He stayed still and listened. Dr. Bennett's voice. Roland's voice. Papers changing hands. Then Dr. Bennett's tone shifted. "The young lady's injury was from a deliberate assault?" "Yes," Roland said. K

The housekeeper Margaret was busy at the stove, and the old man stood beside her, offering steady commentary. "Margaret, keep the soup warm. She can have it whenever she wakes up." "Of course, sir." "These chickens were on the fat side this time. Girls nowadays worry about such things, so skim the oil off the top before you serve it." He frowned at the pot as though personally responsible for the chickens' diet. "Yes, sir." Emily appeared at the kitchen doorway. The old man spotted her immediately and waved her over to the sofa with the authority of someone who had decided she was not to stand on ceremony. "Come, sit. Don't move." He turned back to the kitchen before she could protest and returned carrying a bowl of chicken soup himself, moving with the careful deliberateness of someone who had made peace with using a cane but refused to let it slow him down. Emily stood up to take it from him. "Sit down," he said. "I'll put it on the table. Don't burn your hands."

Emily's phone rang while she was still at her recording setup. She answered it and heard her mother's voice — quiet, careful, trying not to sound afraid. "Emily. Are you hurt?" Emily stood up and walked to the window. "Mom. You already know?" "Richard came to the hospital today. I had him turned away, but the nurses told me afterward. And Roland had already explained what happened last night." Her mother's voice broke slightly. "You should have told me. How long have you been carrying all of this alone?" "Mom, don't cry. I'm coming to the hospital right now —" "You will not move. You have a head wound. Roland is here, he already told me everything. I called because I needed to hear your voice." A pause, steadying. "Is the video real? Everything you said in it?" "Yes. All of it. Do you trust me to handle this?" "I trust you." Her mother was quiet for a moment. "I'm worried Richard will retaliate. He's cornered now. Cornered men do stupid things." "I'm not alone, Mom. T

Emily had spent the better part of an hour building herself up for this. She had reasoned it through carefully. She had told herself it was practical. She had reminded herself that Kellan was unconscious, that this was a medical arrangement, that she was an adult woman making a deliberate choice for her mother's sake. None of that helped when she was actually sitting on the edge of his bed in the dark, her hands cold and her heart hammering loud enough that she was surprised he couldn't hear it. She sat very still and looked at him. He looked exactly as he always did. Still. Perfect. Unfairly handsome for someone who was supposed to be a vegetable. She reached out slowly and traced the line of his brow with her fingertips. His features were sharp and precise even in sleep — the kind of face that suggested a difficult personality in waking life, which she already suspected was accurate. She moved her hand to the tip of his nose. Then, slowly, to his lips. She traced the