Chapter 12
Aria’s POV
The dismissal stung worse than Ethan's accusations. I'd lost my opportunity, and Devon was walking away, the woman in red clinging triumphantly to his arm as they disappeared into another section of the club.
"Now look what you've done," I snapped at Ethan, snatching my portfolio from the table. "How did you even find me here?"
"I had you followed," he admitted shamelessly. "I was worried about you."
"You had me FOLLOWED?" My voice rose in disbelief. "That's not concern, Ethan. That's stalking."
"It's protection," he argued as I pushed past him, heading for the exit. "Kane is dangerous, Aria. You don't know what he's capable of."
I stormed through the main lounge, humiliation burning through me. Ethan followed, continuing to plead his case as we reached the entrance.
"Aria, please. Just stop and talk to me."
Outside on the sidewalk, I finally turned to face him. "There's nothing to talk about, Ethan. We're done. My business with Devon Kane is none of your concern."
"I love you," he blurted out, his voice loud enough to draw attention from passersby. "I made a mistake with Scarlett, but it meant nothing. You're the one I want to be with."
"Lower your voice," I hissed, acutely aware of the growing audience of curious onlookers.
Instead, Ethan dropped to one knee, right there on the busy Manhattan sidewalk.
"What are you doing?" I gasped, mortified.
"Proving how serious I am," he declared. "Aria Harper, I love you. I've always loved you. Will you forgive me and give me another chance?"
People had stopped to watch now. My face burned with embarrassment as I tried to pull Ethan to his feet.
"Get up," I whispered urgently. "This isn't the place."
"Not until you answer me," he insisted, gripping my hand tightly.
The crowd was growing, with some people murmuring encouragement. "Say yes!" someone called out.
I was trapped in a public spectacle of Ethan's making, the whiskey in my system making it difficult to think clearly. The pressure of the audience, the expectant looks, Ethan's pleading eyes—it was overwhelming.
"Ethan, please," I said softly, feeling my resolve weakening under the public scrutiny. "Let's talk about this privately."
He sensed my wavering and pressed his advantage. "Just say you'll give me another chance. That's all I'm asking."
Just as I was about to respond—to say anything that would end this humiliating scene—a sleek black Maybach rolled to a stop at the curb beside us. But instead of stopping completely, the vehicle "accidentally" nudged forward, striking Ethan's kneeling form.
The impact knocked Ethan off balance, causing him to cry out in pain as he tumbled sideways onto the sidewalk. The crowd gasped collectively as Devon emerged from the car, adjusting his cuff links with casual precision.
"Mr. Blake," Devon said, his voice carrying just enough false concern to be believable. "My apologies. You were kneeling there, and I didn't see you. Kneeling too long can strain the knee joints—perhaps you need more design inspiration rather than these outdated romantic gestures." He glanced at his driver. "I've already called an ambulance for Mr. Blake. It looks quite serious."
A security man materialized from the car, immediately checking on Ethan while keeping the crowd at bay.
Devon turned to me, his expression revealing nothing as he held my gaze. "Ms. Harper, I believe I owe you an apology for my rudeness earlier. You've had too much to drink to drive yourself home. May I offer you a ride?"
I glanced at Ethan, who was clutching his knee and glaring murderously at Devon. The crowd was still watching, phones still recording. Devon's offered escape was my only dignified way out of this nightmare.
"Thank you," I said quietly, accepting his outstretched hand and sliding into the luxurious interior of the Maybach.
The Maybach glided through Manhattan's late-night streets, its interior silent except for the soft purr of the engine. I sat as far away from Devon as the spacious backseat allowed, my body still tense from the scene at Pantheon. Ethan's unexpected appearance had turned an already uncomfortable business meeting into a complete disaster.
"Thank you," I finally said, breaking the heavy silence. "For handling that situation back there."
Devon didn't look at me, his profile sharp against the passing city lights. "Your ex-fiancé has a talent for making scenes."
"He's not my—" I stopped myself. The technicalities didn't matter anymore. "Yes, he does."
I clutched my portfolio tighter, deciding to try once more with the real reason I'd tracked Devon down tonight. "About the revised proposal, I was hoping you could—"
"Tonight's business discussion is over," Devon cut me off, his tone final. "I agreed to drive you home, not continue working."
I bit my lip, disappointment washing over me. The dismissal stung, especially after I'd endured the humiliation of drinking three whiskeys under his watchful gaze, only to have Ethan ruin everything.
Devon must have noticed my expression because he added, "Tomorrow night, six o'clock. The Pinnacle Hotel in Manhattan. I'm hosting a private gathering. Bring your proposal then."
My heart skipped a beat. The Pinnacle Hotel—where we'd spent that first night together. The memory sent heat rushing to my cheeks, and I was grateful for the dim lighting that concealed my reaction.
"I'll be there," I said, trying to sound professional despite the warmth spreading through me.
While Devon checked something on his phone, I took the opportunity to study him more closely. The harsh blue light illuminated the tension in his jaw and the pronounced shadows beneath his eyes. His eyebrows were drawn together in a slight frown that seemed permanent.
"Your insomnia's acting up again," I observed without thinking. "No wonder you're so impatient tonight."
His head snapped toward me, surprise briefly replacing the coldness in his eyes. "You remember that detail."
"I remember more than you might think," I replied, holding his gaze.
The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "Where should I drop you?"
I hesitated. Going to my Brooklyn apartment would mean losing valuable time to work on the proposal. "The Harper residence on East 78th Street," I said instead. I needed to collect some reference materials I'd left behind and could work on the proposal there.
Devon nodded and gave instructions to his driver. We rode in silence for the remainder of the journey, but it was a different kind of silence—less hostile, more contemplative. When the car finally stopped in front of my father's mansion, Devon didn't look up from his phone.
"Six o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late, Ms. Harper."
"I won't be," I promised, slipping out of the car and into the cool night air.
---
The Harper mansion was quiet when I entered, everyone presumably asleep. I crept up the grand staircase, avoiding the steps that I knew would creak. My old bedroom remained exactly as I'd left it—meticulous, elegant, and feeling nothing like home. Despite having my own apartment in Brooklyn, my father had insisted on maintaining my room here, though I suspected it was more for appearances than sentiment.
I retrieved my laptop and the market research files I needed from the desk drawer. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I began refining the details of my proposal, determined to address every point of Devon's earlier critique. His cutting remarks about digital integration had been harsh but accurate, and I was determined to present something that would impress even a tech visionary like him.
For the next several hours, I meticulously polished every aspect of our presentation, enhancing the digital elements and perfecting the NFT campaign concepts that would appeal to both traditional luxury buyers and tech-savvy collectors. By 3 AM, my eyes were burning from staring at spreadsheets and slides, but the proposal was getting closer to perfection—each adjustment bringing it nearer to the standard of excellence that might finally earn Devon Kane's approval.
As I finally drifted off to sleep, Devon's intense gaze and the memory of his arms around me at the Pinnacle Hotel invaded my dreams, mixing with the stress of the club incident and the pressure of tomorrow's meeting. Even in sleep, I couldn't escape him.