Chapter 228
Aria's POV
The Upper East Side streets seemed colder than usual as I left the Harper family mansion. My shoulder throbbed slightly where the bullet wound was still healing, a physical reminder of recent dangers that somehow felt less painful than the conversation I'd just endured with my father.
William's words echoed in my mind: "Scarlett cannot go to prison. The Harper family reputation cannot be tarnished." Not a word about my safety or the fact that I'd nearly been sold overseas. His eyes had held nothing but disappointment when looking at me, while showing unwavering devotion to my stepsister.
I walked aimlessly, my heels clicking against the pristine sidewalk. Passersby in designer coats glanced at me with that particular Upper East Side curiosity—polite enough not to stare directly, but judgmental enough to make me feel like an outsider. Perhaps I was. Even in this neighborhood where I'd grown up, I'd never truly belonged.
"Ms. Harper, is that you?"
I turned to see Calvin Reed emerging from Bergdorf Goodman, shopping bags in hand. His tailored suit and careful smile were unmistakable—the CEO of Reed Group was nothing if not meticulous about his appearance.
"You don't look well. Would you like a ride somewhere?" His voice carried a note of investigation beneath the concern, his eyes scanning me as if appraising a potential acquisition.
I manufactured a smile. "Thank you for your concern, but I have other plans. I wouldn't want to waste your valuable time."
As Calvin opened his mouth to respond, a sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb. The back door opened, and Lucas stepped out.
"Ms. Harper, Mr. Kane asked me to take you to him," he said with practiced deference.
I felt Calvin's gaze sharpening. "Keeping close watch, I see," he remarked as I moved toward the car.
The comment hung in the air, making me simultaneously uncomfortable yet oddly reassured. I slipped into the Maybach without responding, the leather seat cool against my skin.
Once we pulled away, Lucas glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I know that... if it weren't for you asking him to spare me, I wouldn't be here."
I shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't save you—I just had bad aim and missed you."
The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. "If you ever need anything, just ask. And about Miami... I'm sorry I couldn't stop Buzz in time."
Our eyes met briefly in the mirror, an unspoken understanding passing between us. I found myself wondering about the loyalty Devon inspired in his people. Was it fear, respect, or something else entirely?
When we arrived at Devon's penthouse, I found a note on the kitchen counter in his precise handwriting: "Emergency meeting. Don't wait up. -D"
I tried calling Sophia, but only reached her voicemail. The housekeeper had prepared dinner, but I had no appetite. "Thank you, but I'm not hungry right now," I told her before wandering through the vast apartment.
The emptiness of the space seemed to echo my own hollowness. I'd stood up to my father, finally broken free from his manipulation, yet victory felt strangely like loss. I moved restlessly through rooms that were impeccably designed but devoid of personality—much like their owner.
Near the kitchen, I noticed a narrow staircase I hadn't seen before. Curiosity pulled me downward into a lower level I hadn't known existed. The space opened into a fully equipped gym, a small theater room, and beyond that, a temperature-controlled wine cellar that would make sommeliers weep with envy.
Rows of rare vintages lined the walls. In one corner stood a collection of whiskeys with small labels marked "D.K."—Devon's private selection, I assumed.
I picked up a bottle, examining the amber liquid inside. Without thinking twice, I uncorked it and took a long swig directly from the bottle. The whiskey burned my throat, but the sensation was almost welcome—physical discomfort to distract from emotional pain.
I wandered to the theater room, bottle in hand, and collapsed onto one of the plush leather couches. The remote control was nearby, and soon Casablanca was playing on the projection screen. My mother had loved this film.
As Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman moved through their doomed romance, I drank more, my thoughts growing increasingly chaotic. My father's betrayal, Scarlett's schemes, my mother's absence—all swirled together with confused feelings about Devon Kane. He'd rescued me multiple times yet treated me like a business arrangement. He was dangerous, manipulative, and cold—so why did I feel safe in his home?
I'm not sure how many hours passed before I heard footsteps on the stairs. The bottle was nearly empty by then, and the room seemed to tilt pleasantly around me.
Devon appeared in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim lighting. His normally perfect suit was slightly rumpled, and his tie hung loose around his neck. He looked tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that even money couldn't fix.
"You found my whiskey cellar," he observed, his voice neither angry nor amused.
I raised the bottle in a mock toast. "And it's excellent." My words slurred slightly.
He approached slowly, taking in my disheveled appearance and the classic film still playing in the background. Without speaking, he sat beside me on the couch, leaving careful distance between us.
I turned to study his profile—the sharp jawline, the perpetual shadow of stubble, the eyes that revealed nothing. In my alcohol-emboldened state, I reached out and touched his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with my fingertips.
"Did you know," I whispered, "you're really handsome... why did you save me? Nobody else would have bothered."
Devon's eyes met mine, something unreadable flickering in their gray depths. For once, I thought I glimpsed a crack in his perfect façade—a momentary vulnerability that disappeared so quickly I might have imagined it.
The film ended, the credits rolling as we sat in silence, my hand still resting against his face, waiting for an answer he seemed unwilling to give.