Chapter 264
Aria’s POV
"Mr. Kane had business to attend to. He's instructed that you rest." Emily's tone was kind but firm. "He's asked that you not leave the room without his permission."
I moved toward the door, but Emily didn't step aside. Beyond her, I could see two figures in the hallway—broad-shouldered men in black suits, their faces blank as stone.
"This is insane," I breathed. "He's actually keeping me prisoner?"
"Mr. Kane said—" Emily's voice softened slightly, "—that this is for your safety. And the baby's."
The baby. The words hit like a physical blow. My hand moved instinctively to my stomach, where six weeks of life had taken root without my permission.
"I'm not hungry," I said, turning away from the food. The smell of the salmon was already making my stomach turn.
Emily hesitated. "You need to eat, Miss Harper. For the little one."
"Get out."
She left quietly, taking the untouched tray with her. I heard the lock click behind her—confirmation that I truly was trapped.
The afternoon crawled by. Emily returned twice more, each time with increasingly elaborate meals. Afternoon tea. Dinner. I refused them all, my stomach growling in protest even as my mind remained defiant. This was my body. My choice. The only power I had left in Devon Kane's carefully controlled world.
By evening, weakness was setting in. I'd found my phone—or rather, the lack of it. Devon must have taken it when he carried me from the clinic. The room's landline was disconnected except for internal extensions. No way to call for help. No way out.
When the lock clicked at seven p.m., I was sitting on the window seat, staring at the city lights that seemed impossibly far away.
Devon filled the doorway, his tie loosened, exhaustion evident in the shadows under his eyes. Emily appeared behind him, her expression worried.
"Mr. Kane, Miss Harper hasn't eaten anything today."
Something flickered in Devon's gaze—was it panic?—before anger smoothed it away. He crossed to me in three strides, his presence overwhelming in the dimming light.
"Get up," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Eat. Don't make me say it twice."
I kept my eyes on the window, my jaw set.
"Aria." The warning in his tone was clear. "I can think of a hundred ways to make you eat. You won't like any of them."
The threat hung in the air between us. Finally, exhaustion won. I stood, my legs slightly unsteady, and moved to the small dining table where Emily had placed yet another tray. I sat. I picked up the fork.
But I didn't eat.
Devon took the chair across from me, his gray eyes never leaving my face. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of the city below.
"You want to make this difficult?" he asked quietly. "Fine. We have all night."
My hand trembled as I speared a piece of beef. The smell hit me first—rich, heavy, wrong. I brought the fork to my lips.
My stomach rebelled instantly.
I barely made it to the bathroom before the dry heaves started, my body rejecting even the thought of food. There was nothing to bring up except bitter acid. I knelt on the cold tile, gripping the porcelain, my body shaking.
Devon appeared in the doorway. I could feel his eyes on me as another wave of nausea hit. When I finally looked up, his expression had shifted—the anger still there, but tempered now with something that looked almost like concern.
He grabbed a towel from the rack, crouching beside me. I snatched it from his hand before he could help, wiping my mouth with shaking fingers.
"What do you want to eat?" His voice had lost its edge.
I leaned back against the cool tile wall, too exhausted to maintain my defenses. "There's a place in West Village. Au Petit Coin. Their French onion soup..."
The memory rose unbidden—my mother's hand in mine, the warmth of the restaurant on cold days. "When I was sick, or sad, she'd take me there. The soup was gentle. My stomach might..."
I trailed off, suddenly aware of how much I'd revealed.
"Twelfth and Seventh," Devon said, surprising me. "I know it."
My eyes flew to his. "How do you—"
"You doubt how well I know you?" He stood, offering his hand. I didn't take it. "But I can't let you out. You'd run. I can see it in your eyes every time you look at that door."
"So this is your version of caring?" The words came out sharper than intended. "Locking me up like a criminal?"
His jaw clenched. "You stay here until I know you won't hurt yourself. Or our child."
He left me there, on the bathroom floor, too tired to move. The main door clicked shut, followed by the sound of his footsteps receding down the hall.
I pulled myself up eventually, made it back to the bedroom. Through the window, I watched his car pull away from the building. The temptation to try the balcony was overwhelming.
The glass door slid open—unlocked, unlike the main entrance. But the moment I stepped out, I understood. Fifty stories up, surrounded by protective railings and security features. I couldn't climb down. Couldn't call for help. Below, the city sparkled like stars fallen to earth.
My phone buzzed—no, wait. Not my phone. The room phone.
"Thinking of jumping?" Devon's voice was dry, sardonic. "Don't bother calculating. That building's security system was designed by me. You can't escape, Aria."
He'd been watching. Of course he had.
The line went dead.
I returned to the bedroom, crawled under the covers still wearing my clothes. Sleep came faster than expected, dragging me under before I could protest.
When I woke, the room was warm with lamplight. A familiar scent filled the air—caramelized onions, thyme, melted Gruyère cheese. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.
Devon sat in the chair by the bed, a ceramic bowl on the small table beside him. Golden bread crust peeked from beneath melted cheese. A basket of crusty bread. A glass of warm milk.
The clock read 11:47 PM.
"You..." I sat up slowly, my voice hoarse. "You went all the way to West Village?"
He didn't answer, just lifted a spoonful of soup, blowing on it carefully before holding it out. "Eat while it's hot."
My hands were shaking as I took the bowl from him. The warmth seeped through the ceramic into my palms. Against every wall I'd built today, tears began to well.
"Forty minutes in traffic," he said, his voice flat but tired. "Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow, we talk."
In the lamplight, exhaustion carved deep lines in his face.
"The baby is ours, Aria. Both of ours. You don't get to decide alone."