The New Emily Hills

Chapter 12

NORA

“Devon, I’m glad you made it,” Mr. Taylor greeted him, unmistakable delight lighting up the old man’s face—as though the person standing before him held real importance.

“I wouldn’t miss this occasion,” Devon replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Especially since I heard that a… special friend of mine would also be attending.”

As he said that, his eyes locked onto mine.

Direct. Unwavering. Without even a hint of hesitation.

I frowned inwardly.

Is he referring to me?

A special friend?

Impossible. We had only just met. Spoken only a handful of times. Strategic encounters. Calculated exchanges. Nothing even remotely personal. At least, not from my perspective.

Unless—he had crossed paths with Emily before.

“Oh?” Mr. Taylor looked genuinely surprised. “You have a friend here?” He scanned the area, clearly trying to locate the person Devon was referring to, even though the four of us were already standing practically shoulder to shoulder in front of him.

Before I could react, someone suddenly cut in.

“Um, excuse me…”

A woman stepped forward, her arm linked confidently with Corrine’s. Everything about her—her posture, her tone—exuded assurance. The kind that came from being accustomed to the spotlight.

“Grandpa,” she said brightly, “I want you to meet my friend and her boyfriend.”

My eyebrow arched instinctively.

Boyfriend?

My gaze slid toward Corrine.

And there it was—the smile. Forced, yet triumphant. As if her eyes were saying: This is my world. I’m the one who belongs here.

“This is Corrine,” the woman continued proudly. “My very close friend. And Asher—her boyfriend, and the CEO of the Bennett Group.”

It felt as though cold water had been poured over the entire room.

Even the guests who had been waiting patiently for their turn to present their gifts were now openly paying attention, curiosity written all over their faces as they anticipated what would happen next.

I could feel the shift in the air.

The change in Mr. Taylor’s expression.

The subtle tightening of Asher’s jaw.

And the unmistakable gleam of confidence flashing across Corrine’s face.

Asher was about to speak—

But the man beside me beat him to it.

“Last time I checked,” Devon said, his voice cool and unmistakably clear, “Mr. Bennett is married to a woman named Emily. Not Corrine.”

I turned to look at him.

Is he defending me?

Or is this just another carefully calculated move?

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Taylor’s granddaughter demanded, her voice nearly rising to a shout as she stared at Corrine, her brows deeply furrowed. According to Esmeralda, the old man was extremely traditional—he had no tolerance for third parties, infidelity, or deception. So her reaction came as no surprise.

“Is Mr. Bennett truly your boyfriend?” Mr. Taylor asked, his tone suddenly grave.

“Ah—I—” Corrine stammered. For the first time that evening, she didn’t know what to say. Her friend stared at her, waiting for confirmation, for a statement that would prove she hadn’t lied.

“No, Mr. Taylor.”

It was Asher who spoke.

The room fell silent.

All eyes turned to him.

“I don’t know why your granddaughter introduced me that way,” he continued, his voice measured but firm. “But—”

He paused, then looked at me.

A single glance, heavy with meaning. A mix of pleading, resolve, and a kind of pride that refused to let go.

Then he took my hand.

“This is Emily,” he said. “My wife.”

At that moment, a man approached and handed him a box—elegant, expensive, unmistakably refined.

“This is our gift to you,” Asher added as he passed the box to Mr. Taylor.

I was stunned.

Not because of the gift.

But because of the audacity.

The audacity to do this in front of everyone, as if nothing was wrong between us.

As if we weren’t standing on fractured ground.

As if this were nothing more than a small misunderstanding.

But I wasn’t born yesterday.

I wasn’t about to be swayed by a public display I knew was loaded with intent.

I immediately pulled my hand away.

But he didn’t let go.

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm. The message was unmistakable.

Not now.

Not in front of them.

I looked straight at him, my gaze cold and unyielding.

And inside, one thing was painfully clear—

If this was the battle he wanted to start in front of the entire Taylor social circle, then he’d better be prepared to finish it—no matter where it led.

“Cici,” Mr. Taylor called sharply, his voice low but trembling with restrained fury. “What do you mean by saying Mr. Bennett is your friend’s boyfriend? Are you trying to ruin his marriage with his wife?”

The room remained silent as Cici stood frozen, her mouth slightly open, unable to answer.

She turned to Corrine, silently pleading for help.

The old man’s anger wasn’t loud—far from it. It was quieter, controlled, deliberate. The kind of anger that could sever connections, tarnish reputations, and alter futures with a single word.

“Dad,” a woman interjected. From the way she said it, it was clear—she was his daughter, or at the very least, a daughter-in-law. “Maybe Cici doesn’t know the truth. You know your granddaughter… she’s so easily swayed by what others say, especially by someone she considers a friend.”

She subtly leaned closer to Cici, but at the same time, she shot a pointed glare at Corrine.

At that moment, I understood.

Corrine’s little game at this gathering was over.

“Tell your daughter,” Mr. Taylor said sharply, each word weighted with authority, “to learn how to choose her friends. If she’s going to cling to people like this, it would be better for her to disown us than to drag the family’s name through her foolishness.”

The silence that followed was like a knife slicing through the air—sharp, cutting, impossible to ignore.

“I will do that, Dad,” the woman replied quickly, without hesitation.

The elderly man beside her—likely her husband—remained silent. He didn’t need to speak. The glance he threw at Cici carried the full force of reprimand, enough to make the weight of her mistake tangible.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bennett,” Mr. Taylor finally said to me, bowing his head slightly. “My granddaughter knows nothing.”

I smiled.

A business smile. Polished. Controlled.

I had considered correcting Asher’s earlier statement—that we weren’t fine, that things weren’t that simple—but just then, his grip on my hand tightened.

Firm.

A warning.

But honestly?

Who cares?

“Asher and I,” I began calmly, my voice clear and steady despite the flutter in my chest, “are in the middle of discussing our divorce.”

It was like a glass shattered silently—unheard, but felt.

“So I guess,” I continued, without a trace of remorse, “there’s reason for your granddaughter to believe Corrine is Asher’s girlfriend.”

I paused.

“Especially when the two were always together at certain events.”

No need to mention her name again.

No need to point fingers.

The weight of my words spoke for themselves.

I saw Mr. Taylor’s jaw stiffen, followed by the sharp, cold, almost dangerous glances shot toward Asher and Corrine.

Seems Esmeralda was right.

The quiet ones—the ones who speak little—are the most terrifying when disappointed.

I felt Asher release my hand. When I glanced at him, he was staring at me, disbelief written across his face.

Did he think I couldn’t speak up here? That I couldn’t even say the word divorce aloud?

“Anyway,” the old man said suddenly, forcing a shift in tone as he turned to the man at my left, “Devon… who is this special friend you mentioned earlier?”

Devon smiled. Calm. Too calm to be innocent.

“Oh, she’s right here,” he said, pointing directly at me.

Eyes widened around the room.

“I accidentally helped her,” he continued, “when she had an allergic reaction at a restaurant. That’s also when I learned she is the new CEO of Hills Pharma.”

He paused deliberately, timing it with precision.

“So yes,” he added, “she’s special to me—because we’re interested in a research collaboration with her company.”

Lightning struck in my chest.

What exactly is this man saying?

I could feel the sudden shift in the air. The guests’ eyes. Their interest. Their calculations.

This wasn’t part of my plan.

Damn it.

I need to restore Emily’s memory—and fast. This cannot happen. I cannot be fumbling blindly in the dark while others know the details I have yet to recall.

The information I need—the secrets, the moves, the connections—is like needles in a haystack.

And the longer I wait, the clearer it becomes:

This isn’t just about a marriage, it's a battle over power, over information, and over who learns the truth first.

I need to know who the enemy is—and who is on my side. But in my current state of knowing nothing, defeat is almost guaranteed.

That cannot happen.

“You are the new CEO of Hills Pharma. Is that true?” Mr. Taylor asked, shock and admiration mingling on his face.

“My father decided to retire and handed me the company,” I said with a smile. “I think it’s about time they focus on spending one-on-one time with Mom. For now, he’s still guiding me.”

“That’s right. From what I remember, Rod did nothing but work. So you’re really their child,” Mr. Taylor added. “No wonder Devon considers you special.”

His words only added to my confusion.

Who is this Devon, and what is this research collaboration he’s talking about?