Chapter 201
Aria's POV
"Stay away from her," Ethan warned, voice breaking with desperation. His hand clenched weakly at his side, the impotence of his rage written in every trembling muscle.
"I just have a few questions for her about my mother." I tilted my head slightly, studying him. "Old friends should catch up, don't you think?"
Ethan's hand jerked toward the call button, but I was faster. I placed my palm over his, pressing it into the mattress. His skin felt clammy against mine.
"I wouldn't," I said softly, holding his gaze. "We're having such a nice conversation."
The door opened behind me. "What is the meaning of this?" Marianne Blake's voice cut through the room. She froze when she saw me, her designer handbag dropping to the floor with a dull thud. "Aria?"
I turned slowly, releasing Ethan's hand. My heart raced, but I kept my breathing measured, my posture relaxed. "Marianne. How lovely to see you again. We need to talk."
For a moment, her perfect socialite mask slipped, revealing raw hatred beneath.
"You." The word sliced through the antiseptic air of Mount Sinai Hospital's private wing. "You have some nerve coming here."
I maintained my composure, though my heart hammered against my ribs. "I'd like to speak with you, Marianne."
She glanced back at Ethan's room, then grabbed my arm with surprising strength, her manicured nails digging into my skin. "My son needs to rest," she hissed, pulling me away from the doorway. The security men tensed, but I signaled them to stay back.
Once we were out of Ethan's earshot, Marianne released me with a shove. Her designer blouse was wrinkled, her usually perfect hair disheveled—the look of a woman who'd been at a hospital bedside for hours.
"Haven't you done enough?" she spat. "Look at what's happened to my son. Are you satisfied now? Did you and Kane have a good laugh about it?"
I kept my voice level. "I had nothing to do with Ethan's accident."
"Accident?" Marianne's laugh was brittle. "Is that what you're calling it? My son may never walk again, and you think I don't know who's responsible?"
The security men shifted uncomfortably behind me. I squared my shoulders, refusing to be intimidated.
"I came to talk about my father. I know you've been meeting with him and the Blakes about—"
"Don't you dare change the subject," Marianne cut me off. "You destroyed my son's life! You parade around with Devon Kane like some trophy after breaking my son's heart."
"Your son broke my heart first," I reminded her, feeling a flare of anger. "He cheated on me with my stepsister while planning our wedding."
Marianne stepped closer, her perfume overwhelming in the narrow hallway. "You think that justifies what you've done? You became another man's whore for revenge."
The word stung like a slap. I'd expected hostility, but not this level of viciousness from a woman who'd once treated me like a daughter.
"Do you think your mother would be proud of you now?" she continued, twisting the knife. "If Elizabeth knew what you've become—that you're sleeping with a man like Kane for business advantages—she'd be turning in her grave."
My throat constricted. The mention of my mother from Marianne's lips felt like a desecration. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out.
"You were going to be a Blake," she pressed on, sensing weakness. "Now you're nothing but Kane's plaything. Do you think he respects you? Do you think anyone does?"
I felt my carefully constructed composure beginning to crumble. The worst part was that her words echoed my own doubts—fears that had kept me awake at night.
"She's not my plaything. She's my girlfriend."
Devon's voice, cool and authoritative, cut through the tension. I hadn't heard him approach, and judging by Marianne's startled expression, neither had she.
He moved to stand beside me, his presence solid and reassuring. "Mrs. Blake, I understand you're upset about your son, but I won't tolerate you speaking to Aria this way."
"Girlfriend?" Marianne looked from him to me, disbelief etched on her features. "Is that what you're calling it now?"
Devon's hand found the small of my back, his touch grounding me. "That's what it is."
His unexpected declaration momentarily robbed me of breath. We'd never discussed labels or defined our relationship beyond our arrangement. Yet here he was, publicly claiming me as more than a business transaction.
Marianne recovered quickly, her shock morphing into calculation. "How touching. And convenient timing, too."
I felt strength returning, fueled by Devon's support. I reached into my purse and withdrew a sealed envelope.
"I didn't come here to discuss my relationship with Devon," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I came to discuss this."
I held out the envelope, and Marianne's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"What is that?"
"Evidence of your meetings with my father. Details about the business deals you've been orchestrating behind my back. There's also some interesting information about financial transactions between you and William Harper during these days."
Marianne paled visibly, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the envelope.
"If you don't give me breathing room—if you don't tell my father to back off—these go to the press," I said, pulling the envelope back just as her fingers grazed it. "And the police."
"You wouldn't dare," she whispered, but uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
"Try me." I met her gaze unflinchingly. "If you don't give me a chance to live my life, then I have nothing to lose. Fish die in nets together."
The moment stretched between us, taut with tension. Finally, Marianne's shoulders slumped in defeat.
"What do you want?"
"Tell my father to stop interfering with my business. Tell him to stop trying to control my life."
She nodded stiffly, her pride clearly wounded.
"I'll do what I can," she said, her voice suddenly tired. "But William has his own agenda. I can't promise anything."
"That's a start," I replied, slipping the envelope back into my purse. "And Marianne? Stay away from me and my company."
I turned to leave, Devon's hand still steady at my back. As we walked away, I heard the distinct sound of something heavy hitting the floor—Marianne's designer handbag, thrown in frustration.