Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run
Chapter 78

In the early evening, she knocked off work a little ahead of schedule, darted to the supermarket to grab all the ingredients she needed, and then dashed home. Dylan would be home two hours, so she figured she had plenty of time to whip up six dishes.

Busy in the kitchen, she was down to her last twenty minutes when the doorbell rang. Expecting Dylan, she hurried to the door.

"Hi..."

She didn't get to finish her greeting before realizing it was Naomi at the threshold. Her mood plummeted, her expression turning frosty.

Naomi barged in, drawn by the delicious smells wafting from inside. "Clara, here you are cooking up a storm while Quinn and Ryan are desperate for your food! Quinn's sick and keeps asking for your cooking. You need to come back to the Bradford estate with me."

Clara raised a hand to close the door, not in the mood to engage.

Naomi shoved the door open with force. "This house was bought with Quinn's money, wasn't it? Now she's sick and craving your meals, and you couldn't care less? How heartless can you be?"

Ignoring Clara's protests, she stormed over to the dining table. When she saw the six beautifully arranged dishes, in a fit of rage, she yanked the tablecloth, sending everything crashing to the floor, with food splattering everywhere.

"Quinn and Ryan can't have this, and you're just here indulging yourself!"

Clara stood there, stunned for a few seconds, before calling the management office.

The staff hesitated, "Ms. Clara, we didn't intentionally let her in, but she claimed to be your mother, and she recently bought a villa for her other daughter, so some of us recognized her."

"I have no ties to her. She's causing a scene. Please escort her out."

Naomi never imagined she'd be booted out by security. She stood outside the complex, fuming and trembling with anger. She had approached Clara twice recently, and her patience was spent. Quinn just loved Clara's cooking, or she wouldn't have bothered! From then on, she'd act like Clara didn't exist!

As Clara crouched to clean up the shattered dishes, she heard the distinct sound of a wheelchair approaching.

Dylan rolled up at the doorway, looking sharp in a brand-new suit.

Clara didn't think much of it at first, but why did he always seem to show up when she was at her most frazzled?

Her grip on the shards tightened a bit as she quietly said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Dylan. Maybe we should just eat out."

Even with her memory of the Bradford family gone, the mention still pricked at her heart.

As she bent to pick up a broken dish, she accidentally cut herself, a fresh wound appearing.

The wheelchair drew nearer, and he gently took her hand. "Don't move. I'll have Aiden clean this up."

Aiden, his right-hand man, took care of nearly everything for Dylan. Right then, Aiden stood by the door, just not stepping inside.

Clara found Aiden's surprised look somewhat amusing, although she couldn't quite say why.

"It's okay. I can handle it," she insisted.

She tried to continue picking up the pieces, but Dylan's grip on her wrist tightened gently.

"Aiden," Dylan called, and Aiden quickly entered.

"Ms. Clara, please sit down. I've got this." He efficiently fetched a mop from the bathroom.

Reluctantly, Clara let Dylan guide her to the couch, still holding her wrist gently. As soon as she sat down, he handed her a tissue to wipe the oil from her fingertips.

Clara curled her fingers slightly. The heat from her earlier agitation cooled at his touch. It felt like brushing against snow.

The space around them felt enclosed, the atmosphere delicate. Dylan cleaned her fingers thoroughly, noting the bleeding was minor.

He tossed the tissue in the trash, then asked, "Do you have a first-aid kit?"

"I do."

She got up to fetch it, noticing bloodstains on the couch on her return. Her hand hadn't bled that much, so could it be...?

Her cheeks flared with embarrassment. Her period had started. No wonder she'd felt off while cooking.

Her pants had to be stained. Did Dylan see everything when she stood earlier?

But that wasn't her main concern now. She was too mortified to meet his eyes, wishing she could just disappear.

Her face flushed, and her body tensed when she heard him ask, "Is your stomach hurting?"

Clara, overwhelmed with embarrassment, couldn't speak. A cool hand touched her forehead. “Does it hurt a lot during your period?" he asked again.

Her lips quivered, finally gathering the nerve to admit, "A little."

The aroma from the meal had faded. After Aiden discreetly opened a window, he slipped out. Now, it was just her and Dylan.

Dylan got up, boiled some water in the kitchen, and somehow found a hot water bottle, filling it to a comfortable temperature before handing it to her.

Clara, frozen on the couch, listened to his gentle instruction. "Hold this against your stomach."

She was about to thank him when a wave of pain drained her color, making her fingers tremble.

Dylan rummaged through the first-aid kit for some ibuprofen, but Clara was too pained to notice.

"Take the pill," he urged softly.

She leaned against the couch, sweating, and was too focused on the pain to worry about her dignity.

Dylan offered her a cup of warm water, gently tilting her chin to place the pill on her tongue. Reflexively, she tried to spit it out, but he carefully lifted her chin, coaxing her to swallow the water.

"Drink."

His firm tone left no room for resistance; she instinctively followed his lead.