TRACES OF PARIS
1447 Words
CHAPTER 15: TRACES OF PARIS
ARIA'S POV
The ride to the hospital is… awkward.
Noah sits next to me in the back of his Maybach, his large frame taking up so much space that I feel the heat radiating off him.
Whenever the car shifts around a sharp turn, my arm brushes against his, sending electricity up my veins.
I bite the inside of my cheek, furious at myself for reacting to him this way. He isn't even looking at me.
His focus is locked onto the tablet in his lap, his voice dropping into a low, monotone drawl as he speaks into his earpiece.
I don't understand what is wrong with me. I have never felt this kind of intense, overwhelming pull with anyone before—not even with my ex, and certainly not during my entire time abroad.
It feels completely foreign, yet terrifyingly familiar.
The hospital receives him like royalty. The moment we step through the private wing entrance, a small army of senior doctors and nurses spring into motion.
Their voices overlap in an anxious, breathless rush: "Mr. Kings, right this way, sir."
They usher him into a secure room to run the donor panels. One of the nurses leads me to a quiet, comfortable waiting area and asks if I need anything, but I can barely process her words.
My eyes are fixed on the heavy clock ticking on the wall.
By the time he finally steps back out, the hands on the clock have moved past six.
The head physician steps out too, announcing that because the tests are so extensive, the full results won't be ready until tomorrow.
"How was it?" I ask, my voice tight as I stand up. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good," he replies calmly. He rolls his shirt sleeves down with slowly, buttoning the cuffs.
"I need to leave now," I say, taking a step toward the exit. "I will be back tomorrow when the results—"
"No," Noah cuts me off, his voice flat and unyielding. "We are going to go eat."
"I'm not hungry," I snap, my teeth grinding.
"Well, I am," he answers simply.
I open my mouth to launch into a full argument, but I stop myself.
Fighting him will only waste more time, and Noah clearly has no intention of changing his mind. Besides, he has been stuck in that donor room for more than two hours for my sake.
"Let's go," Noah commands.
I look down at my phone. It is almost seven o'clock. My heart aches for Remy, who is waiting for me back at the hotel.
His doctor specifically warned me to keep his sleeping schedule strictly regulated. He is going to find it so hard to sleep in a strange place, especially without me there to hold him.
The walk to the parking garage is silent. Noah dismisses Matteo with a nod and walks around to the driver's side, holding the front passenger door open for me.
"Get in, princess," he says, his hand gripping the edge of the door. "I am famished."
He looks exhausted, like he doesn't have the energy to argue with me right now, but his possessive, iron grip on the door tells me he won't allow me to walk away either.
I climb inside, the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne immediately wrapping around my senses.
The journey to the restaurant is a blur as my mind wonders how my son is doing.
When we arrive, we are led past the main dining area into a secluded private booth.
Noah sits across from me, leaning forward with his arms resting on the white tablecloth.
"What is so interesting that you keep staring at that damn screen?" he demands, his dark eyes narrowing into slits.
I don't reply. I keep my face away thoroughly annoyed by how he coerced me into coming here.
Then, a waiter approaches our table. Noah looks at me, waiting for me to order, but I deliberately look away, ignoring him.
Noah scoffs softly, turning to the server. "She'll have the truffle pasta, the garlic bruschetta, and the sweet pastries for dessert."
My stomach twists into a painful knot. Those used to be my absolute favorite things years ago, back when I was younger.
An unbidden flutter hits my chest; I am genuinely surprised he still remembers that.
"I am not eating that," I say, cutting him off sharply before the waiter can leave.
Noah raises a single dark eyebrow at me, his gaze cold.
I turn directly to the waiter. "I want the Parisian-style sea bass with steamed greens, please."
The waiter nods quickly, sensing the suffocating tension, and scurries away into the kitchen.
"You changed your diet," Noah states, his piercing eyes boring into mine, trying to read whatever I am hiding.
"Why?"
"People change in four years, Noah," I reply.
The truth is my health became fragile after giving birth to Remy. I spent three grueling months confined to a hospital bed, completely weak.
The doctors in France couldn't even specify what exactly had gone wrong with my system, but they strictly warned me that heavy sugars and carbs would trigger another dangerous relapse.
I still eat sweet things occasionally when my body feels strong enough to handle it, but right now, I utterly dislike how he acts like he still knows every single secret about me.
Our food arrives shortly after. I pick up my fork, deliberately ignoring his intense stare as I dive into the fish.
The moment the food hits my tongue, I realize just how starving I actually am. I haven't eaten a single thing since the tea and snacks on the plane.
As I eat, Noah suddenly leans further across the table, his broad shoulders casting a heavy shadow over my plate. His eyes lock onto mine, completely unblinking.
"So... Paris," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper. "That's where you've been."
My fork hovers mid-air. How does he know that? I never told him.
"Yes."
"How are you doing over there?" he asks. His tone sounds casual, but his piercing eyes tell me this question is anything but.
"Great," I reply. "I reconnected with my mother's family. Everything has been wonderful."
Noah stares at me for a long moment. Then, his gaze drops down to my phone sitting on the table.
A slow suspicious smile spreads across his lips, a look I can't quite read, but it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Is that so?" he murmurs, finally leaning back into his chair. "Then let's see how wonderful things stay when you're living under my roof for seventy days."
The food slips right off my fork, clattering onto the plate."What does that mean?"
Before I can pull back, his large hand shoots across the white cloth, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist.
His skin is hot against my cold flesh, sending electricity up my arm. My heart drums so hard against my ribs I am afraid he can hear it.
I try to pull my hand back, but his grip is an unyielding shackle. Instead of letting me go, he slides his fingers interlocking his thick, warm fingers with mine, forcing our joined hands flat against the table.
"Are you finally talking to me now, princess?" he teases, a lopsided, arrogant smile pulling at his lips. "No longer in silent anger mode? No more sulking?"
I let out a sharp huff of pure annoyance, my face flushing with heat I can't control. "I wasn't sulking."
"Yeah, right," he nods mockingly, his thumb slowly tracing the skin on the back of my hand.
The gesture is so light it makes my skin tingle. "So where are you staying right now? We can drive over and pack your things tonight. Though, it's fine if you don't bring anything. We can get you everything you need at my place."
I stare at him, stunned by his audacity. "I'm not staying with you."
"Oh?"
"I can't, Noah," I say, my voice turning desperate as I try to pull my hand away from his grip again.
He doesn't budge an inch. "I can't stay with you. My uncle already got a private apartment for..."
"So, you want me to move in and stay with you instead?" he asks, his deep voice dripping with mock innocence.
"Noah!" I gasp, my face burning red.
"Look at that, you're finally talking to me," he teases softly, his eyes locking onto mine.
He motions toward my plate with a knowing look. "Eat, princess. So I can drive you home."
He does not release my hand from his.
- Writer
