Chapter 21
Aria’s POV
The man walked away, leaving me alone at the small table. I stared at the blank business card in my hand, the single phone number seemingly burning into my palm. My throat felt tight as I tried to process what he had just implied about my mother's death—and Victoria's potential involvement.
I reached for my purse and pulled out a cigarette, one of Sophia's that I'd kept from the hospital parking garage. The lighter trembled slightly in my hand as I lit it, inhaling deeply. The smoke filled my lungs, making me cough slightly, but providing a momentary distraction from the hurricane of thoughts in my mind.
The photo he'd shown me kept flashing in my mind—my father and Victoria, looking intimate and comfortable with each other three years before my mother's illness.
My phone rang, startling me out of my thoughts. An unknown number. For a moment, I thought the mysterious man was calling back, but when I answered, a different voice came through.
"Pinnacle Hotel. Our usual suite. One hour." Devon Kane's voice was clipped and authoritative, leaving no room for discussion.
"Devon, I need to—"
The line went dead. I stared at my phone in disbelief. After a moment of hesitation, I stubbed out the cigarette and gathered my things. Whatever Devon wanted, it would be a welcome distraction from the disturbing revelations about my mother.
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The Pinnacle Hotel stood like a gleaming spear in the Manhattan skyline, its sharp angles and glass exterior reflecting the afternoon sun. I stepped through the revolving doors into the marble lobby, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The receptionist, a young woman with perfect makeup and an even more perfect smile, looked up as I approached.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Harper," she said warmly, recognition flashing across her face. "Mr. Kane mentioned you would be joining him. Please, the private elevator is ready for you."
I nodded, trying not to show my surprise at being expected. A uniformed staff member guided me to a discreet elevator at the back of the lobby, using a special key card to access it. The doors opened silently, and I stepped inside, watching the numbers climb as the elevator ascended to the uppermost floors where the most exclusive suites were located.
When I entered the suite, I was struck by how familiar it felt. I'd only been here once before, yet it seemed to have adapted to my presence. Next to the bed was a stack of fashion magazines I liked. In the bathroom, I noticed my preferred brand of toiletries had been added alongside Devon's.
I poured myself a glass of Macallan 25—Devon's preferred whiskey—and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The New York skyline stretched out before me, buildings gleaming in the late afternoon sun. I took a sip, letting the liquid burn down my throat, warming me from the inside.
My thoughts drifted to my mother, Elizabeth Harper. I remembered her preparing me for college, her excitement as we toured campuses together. She had been so full of life then, with her bright laugh and determined spirit. Just weeks later, she was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease that rapidly attacked her nervous system. I had nearly abandoned my acceptance to Princeton to stay with her, but she wouldn't hear of it.
"Your education comes first, Aria," she had insisted from her hospital bed, her voice weak but her resolve unshakable. "I'll be right here when you come home for breaks."
But she wasn't. By Christmas of my freshman year, she was gone. The disease had progressed with a speed that shocked even her doctors.
I took another sip of whiskey, larger this time. Victoria had been at the funeral, playing the part of the grieving public relations director for Harper Group. She'd stood beside my father, her hand supportively on his arm, her eyes appropriately downcast. I remembered thinking it odd how comfortable they seemed together, but I'd been too consumed by grief to question it.
Three months later, Victoria moved into our Upper East Side home with her daughter Scarlett. Six months after that, she became Mrs. William Harper.
And now I had evidence that my father and Victoria had known each other—intimately—at least three years before my mother fell ill. Had my father known Victoria all along? Had he been having an affair while my mother was still healthy and vibrant? Did Victoria deliberately position herself as my mother's personal assistant to get closer to our family?
The whiskey wasn't helping. I felt cold all over, a chill that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me. I poured another glass and drank it quickly, hoping it would warm me.
Time slipped by as I sat on the edge of the massive bed, drinking and thinking. The sky outside darkened, the city lights beginning to twinkle like earthbound stars. My head felt fuzzy, my limbs heavy. I lay back against the plush pillows, just for a moment, I told myself. Just to rest my eyes.
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I felt warm arms around me, lifting me. In my half-conscious state, I thought I was a child again, being carried to bed by my father after falling asleep in front of the TV. But the scent was different—sandalwood and something distinctly masculine. Devon.
I kept my eyes closed, feigning deeper sleep than I was actually in. I felt him placing me carefully under the covers, removing my shoes. The mattress dipped as he sat beside me, and I felt his hand brush my hair away from my face.
"Asleep?" he murmured, his voice carrying a complex mix of emotions I couldn't quite decipher.
In my semi-conscious state, memories washed over me. My mother brushing my hair before bed, her gentle hands working through the tangles. The way she'd sit on the edge of my bed and tell me stories about her college days at Princeton, about meeting my father at an art gallery where she was working as a curator.
"You're my treasure, Aria," she would say, her voice soft and melodic. "Harper's crown jewel. Whatever you want in this world, I'll make sure you have it."
Tears slipped from beneath my closed eyelids, trailing down my temples and into my hair.
"Mom," I whispered, the word escaping before I could stop it.
Devon's hand stilled on my hair. For a long moment, he was motionless beside me. Then, with a gentleness that surprised me even in my hazy state, he wiped away my tears with his thumb.
I felt him move away, heard the rustle of clothes as he undressed. Then the covers lifted, and the bed dipped again as he slid in beside me. His body was warm against my back, his arm coming around my waist, pulling me against him.
"Sleep," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. And surprisingly, I did.