Chapter 221
Aria's POV
Miami hit me like a wall of sound and sensation the moment I stepped out of the airport. The humidity wrapped around me, thick and heavy compared to New York's crisp spring air. Music seemed to pulse from every direction—salsa rhythms spilling from passing cars and the constant chatter of Spanish mixing with English in the taxi line.
"Where to, miss?" the driver asked as I slid into the backseat of a yellow cab.
"The Palomar Hotel, South Beach," I replied, watching the sunglasses man exit the terminal behind me. He paused, scanning the taxi line before stepping toward a black SUV where a driver held open the door. My heart rate quickened, and I fought the impulse to tell the driver to hurry.
The taxi pulled away, and I twisted in my seat, watching until the man and his SUV disappeared from view. My fingernails dug into my palms, leaving half-moon indentations in the skin.
The Palomar was a sleek boutique hotel just two blocks from the ocean, with a minimalist lobby that screamed expensive taste without trying too hard. The receptionist, a young woman with impeccable makeup and a crisp white blazer, smiled as she processed my check-in.
"First time in Miami, Ms. Harper?"
"Yes, just a quick business trip," I lied, my voice steadier than I felt.
She handed me the key card. "The pool closes at ten, and our restaurant serves until midnight. Just a word of advice—" she lowered her voice slightly "—single women should probably avoid the Crystal Lounge area after dark. It's only a few blocks away, but the crowd gets... unpredictable."
I nodded, fighting a smile at the irony. "Actually, that's exactly where I need to go. For business."
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly, but her customer service training kicked in. "Of course. Enjoy your stay with us."
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My room overlooked the pool and a slice of the Atlantic beyond it. I unpacked quickly, then sat on the edge of the bed, planning my next move. The black satin dress I'd brought would work for the club, but I needed to check my bandage first.
In the bathroom mirror, I carefully peeled back the gauze to reveal an angry red line across my shoulder. The stitches had held, thankfully, but a fresh bruise was blooming around the impact site from the airport collision. I winced as my fingers traced the edge of the wound. My reflection looked pale, eyes slightly too bright—the beginnings of a fever. I cleaned it, applied fresh bandages, and chose a black halter dress that would cover the wound while still fitting the South Beach nightlife aesthetic.
By the time I stepped into Crystal Lounge, it was just after ten, and the place was pulsing with energy. Strobe lights flashed across a packed dance floor, and the bass was so deep I could feel it in my chest. Each beat seemed to echo in my wounded shoulder. I made my way to the bar, where a tattooed bartender with a meticulously groomed beard was mixing colorful concoctions.
I ordered a club soda with lime and slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter with Scarlett's photo on my phone.
"I'm looking for this woman. Goes by Scarlett Harper, or maybe just Scarlett? Blonde, about five-seven?" My voice carried a tension I couldn't quite mask.
He glanced at the photo, then pocketed the bill without a second look. "Yeah, that's White Rose. Usually here Thursday through Sunday, always with the same older guy. They take the corner VIP section." He nodded toward a roped-off area on a raised platform.
"White Rose?" The nickname made my skin crawl.
"That's what they call her. Always wears white, acts all innocent." He snorted. "Nothing innocent about that one."
A familiar surge of anger rose in my chest—the same burning resentment that flared whenever I thought about Scarlett's calculated betrayals. "Is she here tonight?" I asked, my knuckles whitening around my glass.
"Nah, haven't seen her since last weekend. Word is they went down to Key West for a few days." He slid my drink across the bar. "You a friend of hers?"
"Family," I said, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.
As I took my drink and turned to scan the club more thoroughly, I froze. The sunglasses man from the airport was leaning against a pillar near the entrance, his dark glasses now replaced with regular frames, but the face unmistakable. His gaze locked with mine, and a chill ran through me despite the club's heat.
My breathing quickened as I pushed my way into the crowded dance floor, using the mass of bodies as cover. My shoulder screamed in protest as people bumped against me, but I kept moving, heading for the back of the club where I'd spotted an exit sign. Sweat beaded on my forehead—from fear, pain, or the beginning fever, I couldn't tell.
The alley behind the club was dimly lit and smelled of garbage and stale beer. I hurried down it to the street, constantly glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see him following. I flagged the first taxi I saw, and directed them to a small hotel I'd noticed during the drive in, about two miles away and significantly less glamorous than the Palomar.
"Change of plans," I explained to the new front desk clerk, a bored-looking man who barely glanced up from his computer. My voice sounded strained even to my own ears. "My friend's place fell through."
Thirty minutes later, I was in a basic but clean room with a chain on the door and a chair wedged under the handle for good measure. My hands shook slightly as I checked that the windows were locked. My phone showed ten missed calls from Devon, all sent to voicemail. I hadn't even heard it ring in the noisy club.
"Great timing, Kane," I muttered, tossing the phone onto the bed. A surge of conflicting emotions washed over me—frustration at his sudden interest after hours of silence, worry about who might be following me, and a strange, unwelcome longing to hear his voice.
Maybe I really was just another of his mistresses after all—easily replaced when the next crisis called or when his mother found him a suitable society bride. The thought stung more than I wanted to admit, leaving an ache deeper than my physical wound.
My shoulder throbbed relentlessly. I swallowed the last of my antibiotics with lukewarm tap water and noted with concern that my forehead felt warm to the touch. Getting sick in a strange city while being followed was definitely not part of my plan. I pressed my palm against the cool bathroom counter, trying to steady myself.
I tried to sleep, but every noise in the hallway jolted me awake—the ice machine down the corridor, the elevator chime, voices passing by. My eyes burned with exhaustion, but my mind refused to quiet. Around 2 AM, a soft knock came at my door.
"Room service," called a young female voice.
I froze, instantly alert. I hadn't ordered anything, and it was the middle of the night—well past any reasonable hour for room service. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it could be heard through the door. Through the peephole, I could see a young woman in hotel uniform with a covered tray. Something about her eyes—darting nervously side to side—set off alarms in my head.
I backed away from the door silently, looking for somewhere to hide. The space under the bed was the only option in the small room. I slid beneath it, ignoring the stab of pain from my shoulder, and held my breath as I heard the electronic lock click and the door swing open.
Multiple footsteps entered—at least three people, judging by the sound. Heavy, deliberate steps that said nothing about hotel hospitality and everything about trouble. I pressed myself against the wall, trying to make myself smaller, invisible. The carpet scratched against my cheek. I could hear them moving around the room, opening the bathroom door.
"She's not here," a male voice whispered. "Check under the bed."
My blood turned to ice. I held perfectly still, barely breathing.
My phone, left on the bed above me, suddenly vibrated with an incoming call. The screen lit up, illuminating the dusty space around me with a blue glow. The name on the display was clear as day: Devon Kane.
"Damn it!" I whispered as a hand reached under the bed, inches from my face.