The New Emily Hills

Chapter 14

NORA

“Now, tell me,” I said coldly, my voice controlled and sharp as my gaze remained fixed straight ahead, “where’s my driver?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slightly turned his head, and that was when I saw it—the hesitation in his movement, the kind that only appears when someone is forced to process a truth their mind refuses to accept.

“Who are you?” he asked instead.

I already knew what was going through his head. Curiosity, yes—but more than that, confusion. Complete mental disarray. And the fact that he was waiting for me at that exact moment was proof enough that he already knew about what happened at the hotel. I was certain he had heard, seen, or received information that led him here. And I was even more certain that he already knew who I was—Emily Hills.

He simply didn’t want to accept it. My actions earlier, my gesture, and the way I spoke now did not match the image of the woman he knew. It didn’t fit into the version of reality he was clinging to.

So I decided to end the confusion myself.

“Emily Hills,” I answered without the slightest hesitation. “CEO of Hills Pharma.”

Our eyes met in the rearview mirror. It was brief, but more than enough for me to catch the shock he tried and failed to conceal behind forced alertness. A few seconds passed before he spoke again, carefully choosing his words.

“Only one woman has ever told me that.”

I curved my lips slightly. “Which part?” I asked, lifting a brow as if daring him to continue.

“About my perfume,” he replied, every word measured, guarded.

“In that case,” I said calmly, without a trace of emotion, “there are two of us now.”

Our gazes lingered once more in the mirror. No one spoke. Neither of us was willing to retreat, but Dante had to; he's driving. It felt like a silent game of chess—whoever moved first would lose, and he just did.

Dante released a deep breath. His body language made it obvious that, for several seconds, he didn’t know what the right thing to say was—or whether he even had the right to speak at all.

This i***t… Dante.

I shook my head slightly, barely hiding my irritation. It was painfully obvious that he had no idea what to do in this situation. Following orders, fighting, killing—those were engraved into his system. That was where he excelled. But when it came to critical thinking, especially in emotionally charged situations where the answers weren’t clear, he suddenly seemed to run out of ammunition.

Still, I couldn’t entirely blame him.

In his mind, he sees Nora Dumont in me. The woman he had known for a long time.

I was certain he knew what had happened to me. He knew I wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. He knew I should no longer exist.

He knows I’m already dead.

And that was exactly why he was reacting this way—why there was caution in his movements, shock in his eyes, and a silence filled with questions he was too afraid to ask.

Dante didn’t say another word.

The inside of the car remained quiet, wrapped in a heavy silence broken only by the low, steady hum of the engine. Several minutes passed before he finally turned the steering wheel and pulled over to the side of the road, stopping in a place that wasn’t crowded—isolated, yet adequately lit by the glow of the streetlights overhead.

He unlocked the driver’s door but didn’t turn off the engine. A clear signal. He was prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.

He was about to push the door open when I stopped him.

“I assume,” I said coldly, my tone calm but every word carrying weight, “that you’ve already taken care of what needed to be done on the second floor.”

His body stiffened instantly.

“Damn,” he cursed under his breath as the door slammed shut again. The frustration in his voice was impossible to miss. I almost laughed at his reaction—if only the situation weren’t so serious. In all the years we had worked together, through the countless messes we survived and the orders he followed without question, this was the first time I had seen him like this: unfocused, unsettled, unsure of who was truly sitting behind him.

Slowly, he leaned back and sat properly in his seat, then looked at me through the rearview mirror.

“Who are you really?” he asked. There was anger in his voice, but confusion outweighed it.

Our eyes met in the glass. And there, I saw eyes I had known for a long time—eyes that turned cold and merciless whenever an enemy stood before him.

Murderous eyes.

The kind that never hesitates.

“Tsk.” I clicked my tongue and tilted my head slightly. His brow lifted, clearly displeased by my reaction. “Go and call my driver,” I ordered, direct and without pretense. “I’ll contact you when it’s time.”

“You don’t get to give me orders,” he shot back sharply, his voice trembling from restrained fury.

I simply stared at him, my expression empty, unreadable. “I just did,” I replied coldly. “And for now, there’s nothing you can do but obey.”

A few seconds passed.

Heavy.

Silent.

It felt as though he was weighing his options—whether to back down or fight. But just as I had said, he had no real choice. He let out a deep breath, thick with forced acceptance and swallowed anger, before casting one last glance in my direction.

He stepped out of the car.

Before closing the door, however, he asked once more, as if unwilling to let go completely.

“How will you contact me?”

“The usual,” I answered without hesitation.

Whether he believed me or not, I couldn’t tell. But at the very least, he managed to hide his reaction. Masking emotions had always been one of his strengths—one of the reasons he had been so effective in the past.

He left.

Moments later, Biboy arrived in another vehicle. The tension was immediately evident in his posture and movements; anxiety clung to him like a shadow.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said quietly, fear unmistakable in his tone.

I only nodded. I understood. He probably wasn’t used to situations like this—to the tension, the sudden shifts, the pressure of people he didn’t fully know.

And that was when a thought settled in my mind.

I need to replace him.

Not because he was useless or had done anything wrong.

But because I knew—

This would be too much for him.

When I arrived home, I was immediately greeted by the Hills couple. Before I could even fully react, they pulled me toward the sofa and urged me to sit down.

“So?” Esmeralda asked at once, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

I smiled and nodded. I didn’t want to disappoint her—not when her concern was genuine. Besides, in one way or another, I did enjoy the evening. Especially since I had met a highly competent lawyer—someone I could potentially rely on when the time came to finalize the divorce between Asher and me.

I didn’t need any kind of connection to that man anymore.

Damn it—I’m not even Emily.

I don’t have the heart to love him. I don’t even have the right to try.

“That’s good to hear,” Esmeralda said, visibly relieved.

“Did Mr. Taylor like your gift?” Rod asked next, his tone casual but curious.

“There was no gift,” I replied plainly.

“What?” the couple asked in unison, both clearly taken aback.

“Matt said something happened,” I added, brushing it off. “Anyway, don’t think about it too much.”

They could only stare at me, confused. To stop them from overthinking, I gave them my sweetest smile—the kind that made people believe everything was perfectly fine, even when it wasn’t.

Damn.

This is exhausting.

Soon after, they allowed me to rest. I went up to my room, washed up, and finally lay down to sleep.

All things considered, the night had gone well—if I ignored the presence of Asher and Corrine. Dante was… tolerable. At least during our confrontation, I had given him a hint. When I finally explained things properly next time, it might be easier for him to understand why I am who I am now—why I look like this, why I move and speak the way I do.

As soon as I closed my eyes, sleep claimed me quickly.

And just like that, I slipped into a dream.