Chapter 108
Aria's POV
The hospital room's stark whiteness was softened by morning light filtering through half-drawn blinds. My father stood by the window, his reflection in the glass revealing a stony expression as he stared out at Manhattan's skyline. My wrist throbbed dully beneath its cast, a constant reminder of yesterday's disaster at Le Bernardin.
A gentle knock interrupted our uncomfortable silence. The door opened, and Elsa appeared, carrying a tray that steamed with promise.
"Miss Aria, I brought you breakfast," she said, her warm smile a stark contrast to my father's rigid posture. "I made fresh shrimp and ginseng soup, and I'll bring some blueberry roasted chicken with quinoa salad this afternoon."
"You didn't have to come all this way," I murmured, attempting to sit up before a sharp pain in my ribs forced me back down.
"Careful now," she cautioned, setting the tray on the bedside table. "The doctor said minimal movement for at least three days."
As Elsa busied herself arranging flowers that had accumulated overnight—none from Devon, I'd noticed—my father watched their interaction, clearly displeased by the warmth between us.
"That will be all, Elsa," William said, his tone making it clear it wasn't a request.
After Elsa reluctantly departed, my father took the visitor's chair, his bespoke suit unwrinkled despite the early hour. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, in what I recognized as his negotiation posture.
"Your marketing company is too small, Aria. This injury proves you need more stable support." He gestured toward my cast. "When you're discharged, come back to Harper Group. That little company of yours—close it down as I suggested."
I met his gaze, a cold smile forming on my lips. "I've heard Harper Group is having cash flow problems. Is that why you want me back?"
Surprise flickered across his face before he regained control. He hadn't expected me to know about the company's financial struggles.
"Who told you that?" he asked, his voice carefully measured.
"Does it matter?" I countered, savoring this small victory.
William shifted, his posture softening slightly. "I can transfer some shares to you, but the group's financing crisis—you'll need to take responsibility for resolving it."
I sat straighter, ignoring the pain shooting through my wrist. "My conditions are simple: all of Mother's shares come to me, and my position must be higher than Scarlett's."
The color drained from my father's face, particularly when I added, "Those are my only two conditions. Consider them carefully."
He rose, his expression darkening. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"
"Thank you for the compliment," I replied smoothly.
William strode toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "You'll regret this attitude, Aria."
The door closed behind him with a controlled click that spoke volumes about his restraint. I exhaled slowly, the pain in my side intensifying with the release of tension.
I was still staring at the closed door when it opened again. Devon stood there, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, holding a bouquet of white calla lilies. His expression was unreadable, but the tightness around his eyes suggested he'd heard at least part of the conversation.
"It sounds like Harper Group's problems are more serious than I thought," he said, approaching my bedside.
I accepted the flowers stiffly. "Enjoying the show, are you?"
Devon positioned himself by the window, exactly where my father had stood minutes earlier. He gazed directly at me, his gray eyes calculating yet somehow distant. For a moment, I wondered if he was still hurt by what he'd overheard yesterday—my careless words reducing him to a "sponsor."
"Harper Group's business model is at least five years behind the curve. What they need isn't just funding—it's a complete transformation." He paused, studying my reaction. "If you need help, I can provide it."
The cool detachment in his voice ignited something bitter inside me. His tone was professional, almost clinical—as if deliberately establishing boundaries between us.
"Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Kane," I replied, my eyes growing cold. "However, my family affairs don't require your concern."
Devon didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on my face, searching for something I wasn't willing to give. I noticed a muscle twitch in his jaw, a small sign of the emotion he worked so hard to conceal. Finally, he nodded once and left without another word.
For the next week, Devon didn't contact me once. Not a text. Not a call. Nothing. Each passing day, I found myself checking my phone more frequently than I cared to admit, even to myself. I told myself it was just business concern—our contract still stood, after all. But at night, alone with my thoughts, I couldn't deny the hollow feeling that had settled in my chest.
---
"I've brought your discharge papers and a change of clothes," Sophia announced, bustling into my room seven days later. Her arms were full of shopping bags and documents.
I was already sitting on the edge of the bed, eager to leave. "My first meal is going to be at Eleven Madison Park. A whole roast duck and champagne."
Sophia frowned, dropping the bags onto a chair. "The doctor says you need bland food for at least two weeks, and also..." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, "You and Devon need to restrain yourselves."
"What?" I asked, confused.
"You know—your intimate activities," Sophia explained delicately. "The doctor says no strenuous exercise for at least three weeks."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Don't worry. Devon's not that beastly." The words came out more wistful than intended. The truth was, Devon hadn't even reached out to see how I was recovering.
"It seems you still don't know me very well."
The deep voice from the doorway made us both turn. Devon leaned against the doorframe, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin warm. I noticed the dark circles under his eyes had deepened—had he not been sleeping again?