Chapter 259
Aria’s POV
Understanding flickered across Anna’s face. "Of course."
After she left, I sat alone in my office, staring at my phone. No messages from Devon. No calls. He was probably still with Evelyn, probably still wearing that smile that had never been for me.
My hand drifted to my stomach again. Six weeks. A tiny cluster of cells that would become a person. Devon's child.
But Devon had Evelyn—beautiful, understanding Evelyn who knew him before I existed, who would still be in his life long after I was gone.
This baby can't be a chain, I thought. Can't be leverage or a trap. If Devon doesn't want me, doesn't want us...
I closed my laptop before I could finish that thought. Anna returned twenty minutes later with confirmation—flight booked, hotel reserved, all under Harper Group's corporate account.
"Thank you," I managed. "I'll head home to pack."
But I didn't go to the Harper mansion. I went to my Brooklyn apartment, the one I'd barely used since Devon had pulled me into his orbit. It felt like visiting a museum of my former life—the photo of my mother on the mantle, the half-finished business proposals, the ghost of who I'd been before him.
I threw clothes into a suitcase without really looking at them. My phone buzzed—Sophia, asking if I wanted to grab dinner.
"Can't tonight," I typed back. "Work emergency. Catch up soon?"
I didn't text Devon. What would I say? Your mother showed me exactly where I stand. Thanks for the memories. Don't worry about finding me—I'll find my own way out.
At 6:45 PM, I locked the apartment and headed for JFK. The car service was blessedly silent, the driver respecting my obvious desire not to talk.
Chicago would give me space to think. Space to decide if this secret I carried was my greatest vulnerability or my only real connection to Devon Kane.
Space to figure out if I could walk away from a man who'd never really been mine at all.
My phone buzzed as I sat in JFK's departure lounge, the screen illuminating Devon's name. "You coming back when?"
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The fluorescent lights overhead felt too bright, the gate announcements too loud. Everything seemed amplified, raw.
"Temporary business trip. Chicago project."
His reply came instantly. "How long?"
I powered off my phone without answering. I couldn't tell him I didn't know when I'd be ready to face him—or if I ever would be. The image of him with Evelyn, that unguarded smile I'd never seen directed at me, played on loop in my mind.
The plane touched down at O'Hare just before midnight. Late autumn wind cut through my coat as I dragged my suitcase through the terminal. I should have gone straight to the hotel, but pregnancy had given me strange cravings. I found myself in a 24-hour diner, ordering Chicago-style deep dish and hot chocolate.
Sitting by the window, watching sparse pedestrians hurry past, I felt the freedom of escape suffocate me. My hand drifted to my stomach—a habit I was developing—and quickly pulled away.
That night, lying in the hotel bed, I thought of Devon's smile for Evelyn. The tears I'd held back all day finally came, silent and relentless. I didn't sleep.
---
The next morning, I overslept. I rushed to the Reid Group project site, where the client greeted my tardiness with understanding—and additional demands.
The following days blurred together. I threw myself into work coordination during daylight hours, then wandered Chicago's streets at night. Deep dish pizza. Italian beef sandwiches. Garrett popcorn that I bought and forgot to eat. I jogged through Lincoln Park, stood in front of the Crown Fountain at Millennium Park until my feet went numb, spent entire afternoons at the Art Institute without really seeing anything.
The five-day trip stretched to ten. Anna called, her voice carefully neutral: "Miss Harper, there are other matters in New York that require your attention."
"The project needs more time," I lied.
Devon texted twice. "Project going smoothly?" and "Need help?" Both messages read like business inquiries, nothing more.
My replies matched his tone. "Everything's fine." and "Don't need any."
Neither of us mentioned our fight. Neither brought up Eleanor's intervention. We maintained a polite distance, separated by unsaid secrets and a thousand miles.
But the emptiness inside me only grew.
On what should have been my last night in Chicago, I canceled all work obligations. Austin from the office invited me to try a famous deep dish place in River North. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw it first—the black Rolls-Royce Phantom parked at the curb, Marcus standing beside it with military precision.
My heart stopped.
The car door opened. Devon emerged in a charcoal gray suit, hands in his pockets, brow slightly furrowed in that way he had when deep in thought. He looked exactly as I remembered and nothing like what I'd convinced myself to forget.
I stood abruptly, nearly knocking over my water glass. "I need the restroom."
Austin barely looked up from his menu. "Sure."
I practically ran toward the back of the restaurant, my heels clicking too loudly on the hardwood floor. But there was only a staircase leading upward, no exit, no escape.
A middle-aged man descended the stairs, glancing past me. "Mr. Kane, your private room is ready. This way, please."
"No." I dove into the small restroom tucked in the stairwell corner, pressing my back against the door. Through the crack, I watched Devon's shoes pause—expensive Italian leather—then continue up the stairs. His footsteps were measured, confident, unhurried.
I waited ten minutes. Fifteen. My phone buzzed with concerned texts from Austin. When I was certain Devon had settled into his private room, I crept back downstairs.
"You okay?" Austin studied my face as I slid into my seat. "You look really pale."
I forced a smile. "Just preg—" The word caught in my throat. "Just feeling queasy. The smell, you know."
"Idiot." I'd almost said it. Almost exposed everything.
---
I ended dinner early, claiming exhaustion. Back at The Langham Chicago, I showered and tried to convince myself that seeing Devon had been coincidence. That he wasn't here because of me.
I was blow-drying my hair when someone knocked.
Probably Austin with my scarf. I'd left it at the restaurant. Without thinking, I opened the door.
Devon stood in the hallway. He'd shed his suit jacket, rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. His gray eyes held something I couldn't read—something controlled and dangerous.
I moved to close the door. His hand shot out, palm flat against the doorframe with enough force to make me step back.
"Running from me?" His voice was low, cold.
"I'm not running. I'm working."
He walked in without invitation, closing the door behind him. His gaze swept the sparse room—my barely unpacked suitcase, project files scattered across the desk, the half-eaten room service on the nightstand.
Then he turned those storm-cloud eyes on me. "Does work require you to turn off your phone? Does work require you to extend business trips indefinitely? Does work require you to bolt like a scared rabbit when you see me?"
My pulse hammered in my ears. He'd known. At the restaurant, he'd known I was there.
"I can explain—"
"Ten days, Aria." He cut me off, each word sharp as broken glass. "Ten days of one-word responses. Ten days of watching you slip further away."
I bit my lip, tasting blood. What could I say? That his mother had shown me exactly where I stood? That I'd seen him with Evelyn, seen the real affection he was capable of—affection he'd never shown me? That I was carrying his child and terrified of what that meant?
The air between us felt thick, suffocating. We stood only a few feet apart, but it might as well have been a canyon.