Chapter 95
Aria's POV
After Devon had signed our contract and abruptly left, I'd sat in his penthouse feeling confused and oddly hollow. What had I said or done to cause such a sudden change? One minute we were on the verge of intimacy, the next he was cold and distant, fixing his tie and heading out without explanation.
I waited for nearly an hour, expecting him to return. When it became clear he wouldn't, I gathered my things and called a car. If he didn't want me there, I wouldn't stay where I wasn't wanted. Back in my Brooklyn apartment, I'd fallen into a restless sleep, my mind replaying our interaction, searching for the moment things had shifted.
The vibration of my phone jolted me from a restless half-sleep. I fumbled for it in the darkness, squinting at the bright screen: 2:37 AM.
"Marcus" flashed on the display. Devon's assistant never called unless it was important.
"Hello?" My voice was thick with sleep.
"Ms. Harper." His tone was clipped, professional even at this hour. "Where are you?"
"At my apartment. Why?"
"Mr. Kane returned from the club an hour ago. He seemed... displeased to find the penthouse empty." Marcus paused, his voice dropping slightly. "He's had several drinks since then."
I sat up, suddenly alert. "Is he okay?"
"Physically, yes. But perhaps you could return? He..." There was a moment of hesitation. "He sleeps better when you're here."
I bit my lip, conflicted. This wasn't in our contract. Yet something in Marcus's voice suggested an urgency beyond professional obligation.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said, already searching for my clothes.
During the Uber ride, I stared at the glittering Manhattan skyline, my thoughts racing. Was I crossing a boundary? Was this still a transaction, or something more complicated? I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling suddenly vulnerable in the empty backseat.
The doorman nodded in recognition as I entered the luxury building. The elevator whisked me to the penthouse floor where Marcus waited, his usually impeccable appearance slightly disheveled.
"He's in the bedroom," he said, relief evident in his voice. "I've never seen him like this before. Not with anyone." With that cryptic comment, he disappeared into the elevator, leaving me alone with its implications.
I found Devon sprawled across his king-sized bed, still dressed in his evening clothes. The scent of expensive scotch hung in the air. His normally perfect hair fell across his forehead, his expression unguarded in a way I'd never witnessed before. The sight of him so undone stirred something protective in me.
As I approached, his eyes flickered open, focusing on me with surprising clarity for someone who'd been drinking. His gaze softened momentarily before hardening again with recognition.
"You came back," he murmured, his voice deeper than usual, rough at the edges.
"Marcus called. He was concerned."
Devon shifted, propping himself up against the headboard. "Why did you mention Blake tonight?" His jaw tightened as he said the name.
The question caught me off guard. "Ethan? I was just making a comparison."
"Do you still think about him?" The directness of his question, so unlike his usual measured speech, made me pause. His fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles whitening.
"Not the way you're implying," I replied cautiously, watching his reaction.
He studied me, gray eyes intense despite his inebriated state. I could see him struggling to maintain his composure. "How could you have wanted someone like him? So... superficial." His lips curled with distaste, a muscle working in his jaw.
"I was younger. Less experienced." I kept my voice steady, though his scrutiny made my skin warm.
"He didn't deserve you." The raw possessiveness in his tone sent an electric current through me. His gaze dropped to my lips for a fleeting second before meeting my eyes again.
"It doesn't matter anymore. That's over." I found myself wanting to reassure him, despite knowing this vulnerability was likely temporary.
"Is it?" His gaze was penetrating, searching for truth beneath my words. His shoulders remained tense, his breathing uneven.
I sat on the edge of the bed, maintaining a careful distance. "You should sleep, Devon."
He reached for my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His fingers were warm against mine, hesitant in a way I'd never felt from him before. "Stay."
After a moment's hesitation, I nodded. "I'll take the sofa."
Something like disappointment flickered across his face before he closed his eyes. His grip on my hand loosened gradually as sleep claimed him. I watched his features relax, the furrow between his brows smoothing out, his lips parting slightly.
I settled onto the plush sofa in the corner of his bedroom, watching his chest rise and fall. The powerful CEO of Kane Technologies, reduced to seeking comfort from my presence.
---
Morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows when I awoke. My neck ached from the awkward sleeping position. Devon stood by the windows, already dressed in tailored pants and a crisp white shirt, gazing at the Manhattan skyline. His posture was rigid, hands clasped behind his back.
"Good morning," I said, stretching discreetly.
He turned, his expression carefully neutral. "You stayed."
"Marcus said you needed me to." I watched his reaction carefully.
A flash of something—embarrassment, perhaps discomfort—crossed his features before his professional mask slipped back into place. His shoulders stiffened slightly. "Marcus overstepped. I apologize for the inconvenience."
I stood, smoothing my rumpled clothes, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look. "How's your head?"
"Fine." His curt response suggested otherwise. He pressed his fingers briefly to his temple when he thought I wasn't looking.
"Let me get you some water and painkillers." Before he could protest, I headed to the kitchen, grateful for the moment to compose myself and sort through my confused feelings about last night's revelations.
When I returned, he accepted the items with a nod. "Thank you." His fingers brushed mine during the exchange, and I noticed him swallow hard as he pulled away.
An awkward silence fell between us. Last night's vulnerability had vanished completely, replaced by his usual detachment. Yet there was a new tension in the air, a shared awareness of boundaries crossed.
"I should make you breakfast," I said suddenly. "As thanks for the contract."
His eyebrow arched slightly. "That's not necessary." Despite his words, his eyes registered surprise at the offer.
"I insist." I headed to the kitchen, determined to prove my value beyond our contractual agreement, needing to establish a new equilibrium between us.
I searched his immaculate kitchen, finding it surprisingly well-stocked. Eggs Benedict seemed impressive enough to match his sophisticated tastes. I quietly googled the recipe, my hands trembling slightly as I whisked eggs and melted butter, anxiety mounting as I tried to remember the proportions.
I felt his presence before I saw him, leaning against the doorframe, observing my amateur cooking efforts. His eyes tracked my movements, softening briefly when I fumbled with the whisk. When I turned, his expression had already reset to neutral, but not before I caught a glimpse of something gentler in his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, I proudly served two plates of what appeared to be perfect Eggs Benedict. Devon sat across from me at his minimalist dining table, taking a careful bite. His face remained impassive, but I noticed him hesitate before swallowing.
"It's excellent," he said, though his expression didn't match his praise. His eyes darted away from mine, focusing on the plate.
I took a bite myself and nearly choked. The hollandaise sauce was impossibly salty. I'd confused tablespoons with teaspoons in my nervous haste. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I set down my fork, mortification washing over me.
Devon set down his fork too, his jaw tightening. "Is this how you typically repay your benefactors? Did Blake enjoy this level of... attention too?"
The sudden coldness in his voice startled me. His eyes had hardened, the warmth I'd glimpsed earlier completely gone. Then understanding dawned—his jealousy from last night hadn't disappeared with the alcohol.
I set my fork down deliberately, hurt giving way to determination. Instead of responding with defensiveness, I moved around the table toward him. His eyes tracked my movement with wary interest, his breathing visibly changing pace.
Standing beside his chair, I let my fingers trail lightly along his collar. His skin was warm beneath the fabric, and I felt a slight tremor run through him. "If my past with Ethan bothers you so much," I said, meeting his gaze directly, "we could always terminate our contract."
His breathing quickened, the pulse at his throat visibly accelerating. His eyes darkened as they darted between my face and my fingers at his collar. I saw desire warring with pride in his expression, his lips parting slightly before pressing into a firm line again.
I stepped back, reaching for my purse. "I should go now." My voice remained steady despite my racing heart.