Chapter 262
Aria's POV
"Drive," Devon ordered Marcus, who'd materialized in the driver's seat.
The car pulled away from the curb smoothly, but even that gentle motion made my stomach lurch. I pressed my hand against the window, the glass solid and real beneath my palm. Something to anchor me as reality slowly reasserted itself.
Through the window, Brooklyn blurred past—brownstones and corner bodegas giving way to the approach of the bridge. Manhattan's skyline rose ahead, towers of glass and steel that suddenly felt like prison bars. With each passing minute, the sedative's grip loosened fractionally. Sensation returned to my fingers. My thoughts began to sharpen at the edges.
I pressed myself against the far door, as far from Devon as the confined space allowed. He didn't look at me. His profile was carved from marble as he stared out his window, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled into fists.
My heart rate picked up as awareness flooded back. What had I done? What had almost happened? The clinical white of the procedure room flashed through my mind, and I fought down a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the drugs.
The silence was suffocating. I wanted to explain, to make him understand why I'd made this choice, but the words died in my throat every time I glanced at his rigid posture. This wasn't the controlled businessman I'd grown accustomed to. This was something rawer, more volatile.
We crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the East River glittering beneath us. I used to love this view—the way Manhattan rose like a promise on the other side. Now it just reminded me how different our worlds were.
My mind was clearing rapidly now, the fog lifting to reveal the sharp edges of reality. Devon had stopped me. He'd burst into that clinic and carried me out like—like what? Like I belonged to him? Like he had any say in what I did with my own body?
But it wasn't just my body anymore, was it? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through me, cutting through the last vestiges of the sedative's false calm.
"Devon—" I tried again, my voice stronger now but still uncertain.
His head turned fractionally, gray eyes meeting mine for just a second. What I saw there made me fall silent. Not anger—I could have handled anger. This was deeper, colder. Hurt mixed with fury and something that looked terrifyingly like fear.
The clarity was almost worse than the fog had been. In the haze, I could pretend this was happening to someone else. Now, fully aware, I had to face what I'd tried to do. What he'd prevented me from doing.
The drive to his building felt endless and too short all at once. When we pulled into the underground parking garage, the attendants took one look at Devon's face and found urgent business elsewhere.
He didn't wait for Marcus to open the door. His hand closed around my wrist the moment we were out of the car, his grip just shy of painful as he pulled me toward the private elevator. I stumbled slightly—my coordination still not quite back to normal—but he steadied me without breaking stride.
"Devon, you're hurting me," I said, testing whether any of the gentle man I'd glimpsed in quiet moments still existed beneath this fury.
He didn't loosen his hold, but his thumb moved in a small circle against my pulse point. A gesture so brief I might have imagined it.
The elevator doors slid open. We stepped inside, and he finally released me, only to press the button for his floor with more force than necessary. The doors closed, sealing us in reflective steel that showed me my pale face, my disheveled hair, the dark circles under my eyes. I looked like a ghost.
I felt more solid with each passing second. The adrenaline of being caught, of being dragged away, had burned through the last of the sedative. Now I stood on my own two feet, fully conscious, fully aware of the magnitude of what had just happened between us.
Devon stood as far from me as possible, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring at the floor numbers as they climbed. Twenty floors. Thirty. Forty. Each one took us higher into his world, further from mine.
When we reached the top floor, he walked ahead without checking if I followed. His apartment door stood open, and he strode through, leaving me to trail behind on legs that finally, finally felt like my own again.
The space was exactly as I remembered—floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, everything in shades of gray and white. But instead of feeling elegant, it suddenly felt sterile. Cold.
Devon didn't stop in the living room. He headed straight through to the connected study, poured himself three fingers of whiskey despite the early hour, and stood at the window with his back to me.
Minutes ticked by. Five. Eight. Ten. The only sound was the subtle tick of an expensive clock on the wall. Finally, unable to bear it anymore, I crossed to the bed and sat on its edge, trying to gather my scattered thoughts into some kind of coherent defense.
Devon turned from the window. He pulled a cigarette from a case I'd never seen him use—he didn't smoke in his apartment, not ever—and lit it with deliberate precision. Then he walked to the chair facing me and sat, crossing one leg over the other with calculated ease.
He didn't speak. Just looked at me with those storm-gray eyes, studying me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve. Or a problem he needed to eliminate.
The scrutiny was unbearable. I felt it like physical pressure, examining every flaw, every weakness. My hands twisted in my lap. I forced them still.
"You want to say something, just say it," I finally burst out, unable to stand the silence another second.
Devon took a long drag of his cigarette, eyes never leaving mine. Exhaled slowly. "Six weeks," he said. Not a question. A statement.
My heart stuttered. He knew the exact timeline. Had he checked my medical records? The thought made my skin prickle with unease.
"Before I dragged you off that goddamn table," he continued, his voice deadly quiet, "were you planning to tell me?"
I bit my lip. "I—"
"Answer the question, Aria." He leaned forward, cigarette burning between his fingers. "Were you going to tell me you were pregnant with my child before you killed it? Or was I just never supposed to know?"