Chapter 166
Aria's POV
Devon's jaw had tightened further. "She's not my driver, Mandy." His voice was low, controlled, but I caught the undercurrent of irritation—stronger than the situation seemed to warrant.
But Mandy wasn't deterred. "You've barely spent an hour with me, after I spent all day getting ready for this dinner." She'd gestured at her designer dress. "Your mother will be disappointed."
"Drive, Aria," Devon had commanded, still not looking at Mandy.
I'd hesitated for just a moment, weighing my options. Engaging would only escalate the situation, and the strategic move was to retreat. So I'd shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, leaving Mandy standing there, her expression hardening into something ugly.
Now, several blocks later, Devon finally broke the silence.
"You handled that well," he said, his voice low. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on his knee—the only sign of his lingering tension.
"Did I?" I kept my eyes on the road, but felt his gaze on my profile.
"Most women would have engaged. Started a scene." His gray eyes studied me, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical touch. "I expected the Harper heiress to be more... aggressive."
I allowed myself a small smile. "Some wars are worth fighting in public. Others are better won in the shadows."
Devon leaned back against the headrest, something shifting in his expression. His eyes softened slightly, the hard line of his mouth relaxing.
"That's why I like you, Aria. You always know when to strike and when to wait."
The word "like" hung in the air between us, carrying more weight than it should. His voice had dropped lower, a note of genuine appreciation breaking through his usual controlled tone. My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I tried to ignore the flutter in my chest.
Something unspoken hung between us—a tension that had nothing to do with Mandy Stevens and everything to do with what had happened in the hot springs earlier. The way his hands had moved over my body, possessive and knowing. The way I'd responded, despite my better judgment.
At a red light, I made the mistake of glancing over at him. His eyes were still on me, watching with an intensity that made my skin warm. I looked away quickly, but not before noticing how the streetlight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features.
I dropped Devon at his Manhattan penthouse, refusing his invitation to come up. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking at me through the car window, his expression unreadable but his eyes strangely reluctant. I needed space, needed to think—needed to sort through the confusion he created in me.
Back in my Brooklyn apartment, I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the sofa, exhaustion washing over me. My phone buzzed—my father. I let it ring through to voicemail.
"Aria," his voice was tight with irritation. "I expect you at the family dinner tomorrow. Your continued absence is becoming noticeable. Call me back."
I deleted the message without responding. William Harper could wait. I had work to do.
I spent the remainder of the evening poring over the Harper Group's organizational restructuring proposal. The company needed streamlining, but my father's approach was heavy-handed, prioritizing Victoria's favorites over more qualified candidates. I made detailed notes, determined to present a counterproposal at the next board meeting.
Yet occasionally, unbidden, Devon's face would appear in my mind. The intensity in his gray eyes when he'd said he liked me. The subtle shift in his voice. I pushed the thoughts away, annoyed at myself for the distraction.
It was nearly midnight when I realized I'd missed dinner. I grabbed an apple from the fridge and checked my phone. No messages from Devon. I told myself I was relieved, not disappointed, though the slight hollow feeling in my chest suggested otherwise.
I texted Sophia: "Late dinner tomorrow? Need to discuss Stellar's Q3 strategy."
When she didn't respond immediately, I frowned. Sophia was always glued to her phone, especially when it came to business matters. I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail.
A seed of worry took root. This wasn't like her at all.
I called Melanie, our assistant at Stellar Impressions.
"Hey, Melanie, do you know where Sophia is today? She's not answering her phone."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You don't know?" Melanie's voice was uncharacteristically somber.
"Know what?"
"She's in the hospital, Aria. Presbyterian. She was admitted this evening."
My blood ran cold. "What happened? Is she okay?"
"I don't have all the details. Something about her arm. She told me not to worry you because you've been busy with the Harper Group stuff, but..."
"I'm going there now," I said, already grabbing my keys.
---
At New York Presbyterian, I rushed through the sterile corridors, my heart hammering in my chest. Room 412. The door was slightly ajar.
I pushed it open to find Sophia lying in bed, her right arm wrapped in bandages. An IV drip was attached to her left hand. Her usually vibrant face was pale, dark circles shadowing her eyes.
"Aria," she said, attempting a smile. "You didn't have to come."
"Don't be ridiculous." I moved to her side, taking her uninjured hand. "What happened? Why didn't you call me?"
Before she could answer, the door swung open. My body tensed as Owen Wilson walked in, carrying a small bouquet of white lilies. His steps faltered when he saw me.
Our eyes locked, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Owen—Devon's cousin, Sophia's ex-boyfriend from Princeton, and the last person I expected to see here.
"What the hell are you doing here?" The words escaped me before I could stop them, sharp and venomous.