Chapter 256
Aria’s POV
I turned to find her arm-in-arm with Owen, both dressed for the occasion. My heart sank. This was about to get complicated.
"Christopher mentioned space was limited," Owen said smoothly. "Why don't we share a table?"
Before I could manufacture an excuse, a server was guiding us to the VIP lounge—an intimate space with low couches and a cocktail table. Devon sat beside me, close enough that our thighs pressed together. His proximity made me hyperaware of every breath, every movement.
"So," Devon said conversationally, turning to Sophia, "Aria mentioned you two had plans tonight?"
Sophia's face went blank. "What date? We don't have—"
Under the table, I brought my heel down on her foot. Hard.
She gasped, then recovered with impressive speed. "Oh, THAT date! Yes, of course. But Owen surprised me with tickets to this, so..." She grabbed a champagne flute and thrust it at Owen, who'd opened his mouth to speak. "Let's toast to Christopher's success!"
Devon's eyes narrowed. He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "Why so nervous, Aria?"
His hand found mine under the table, fingers intertwining. The grip wasn't gentle—it was a warning, a question, a claim all at once.
"I'm not nervous." The lie tasted bitter. "Just excited for Christopher."
His thumb traced circles on my palm, each touch deliberate. Claiming. "Hmm."
---
The evening might have continued in that tense equilibrium if not for the installation piece at the gallery's center—"Essence of Memories," a collaboration between scent and visual art. Jasmine and sandalwood wafted through the space, thick and cloying.
I could handle that. I'd been handling it.
Then a server appeared with small plates of seared foie gras, the rich, fatty smell hitting me like a physical blow.
My stomach turned. Hard.
The room tilted. I tasted bile.
"Excuse me," I managed, my voice strangled, before lurching to my feet. My hand clamped over my mouth as I half-ran toward the restrooms, Sophia's worried call following me.
I barely made it to a stall before my body rebelled, heaving over the toilet. Nothing came up but water and acid, but my stomach kept contracting, determined to purge something I couldn't name. When the spasms finally stopped, I slumped against the tile wall, shaking.
The bathroom door opened. "Aria?"
"I'm fine, Sophia." I didn't sound fine. "Just give me a minute."
I forced myself to the sink, gripping the cold porcelain as I stared at my reflection. Mascara smudged. Face pale as death. I looked exactly like what I was—someone coming apart at the seams.
Cold water helped. I splashed my face, fixed my makeup as best I could, and spent ten minutes breathing through the lingering nausea before I dared return.
Devon stood the moment he saw me, his expression unreadable. "You need to leave. Now."
"I'm fine," I protested weakly. "Just a little dizzy."
He was already guiding me toward the exit, his hand firm at the small of my back. "Christopher, we need to go. Aria isn't feeling well."
I managed a weak smile and a murmured apology as Devon practically carried me out into the cool evening air. Behind us, I caught Sophia's worried face, Owen's confusion, and—most terrifying of all—Devon's gray eyes fixed on me with an intensity that suggested he was putting pieces together I desperately needed to keep separate.
In the car, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the window, feeling his gaze on me even as he said nothing. The weight of his silence pressed down, heavier than any accusation.
The secret I was carrying had just gotten infinitely harder to hide.
The Bentley's leather seats felt cold against my back as I leaned into the window, watching the city lights blur past. Devon sat beside me in silence, but his right hand held my left, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin. That simple touch—it was both comfort and threat. He knew my body too well. Every tell, every tremor.
The car didn't turn toward my home. Instead, Marcus steered us toward Devon's building in Midtown, where the penthouse stretched across the top three floors like a crown.
"I should go home..." My voice came out weaker than I intended.
"No." Devon's gray eyes cut to me. "You're not okay, and I need to make sure you're safe."
His phone buzzed. He answered, gave Marcus instructions I couldn't quite hear, then ended the call.
"Marcus is picking up something from the pharmacy," he said. "Stomach medication. Anti-nausea pills."
My heart kicked against my ribs. "That's not necessary—"
"It is."
The rest of the drive passed in silence. Devon asked nothing. Demanded nothing. But that quiet felt heavier than any interrogation. I'd seen him negotiate billion-dollar deals with that same patient stillness, watching his opponents squirm until they broke.
He knows something's wrong. He just doesn't know what yet.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I felt a strange numbness settle over my chest as the elevator rose to his floor.
---
Eleven o'clock found me in Devon's bed, freshly showered and wearing one of his oversized Princeton t-shirts. He'd insisted I rest while he worked in his study. The king-sized mattress felt too big, too empty without his presence.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Sophia:"Are you okay? What happened tonight?"
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keys.
Me:"I'm fine. Just a stomach bug."
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Sophia:"You're hiding something from me. From Devon too. Whatever it is, be careful."
My chest tightened. Sophia knew me too well. But I couldn't—wouldn't—tell her about the pregnancy. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Me:"How are things with you and Owen? Are you two back together?"
A long pause. Long enough that I thought she wouldn't answer.
Sophia:"It's complicated... Aria, my mother killed herself because of Owen and his fiancée. I can't let my mom die for nothing."
The words hit like a physical blow. I'd known Sophia was hurting, but seeing it spelled out so starkly...
Me:"Of course. Be careful, Soph."
Sophia:"You too. Devon looked like he wanted to strangle someone tonight when you ran to the bathroom."
I set the phone down with shaking hands. Devon had noticed. Of course he had. The man built an empire on reading people's microexpressions, on finding the hairline cracks in their composure.
The bedroom door opened without warning.
Devon stood silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the hallway's soft glow. His tie was gone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. But his expression—God, that expression made my pulse spike.
"Still awake?" Not really a question.
"I thought you were in your study." I sat up, pulling the comforter higher.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Can't sleep. And neither should you, apparently."
The bed dipped as he sat on the edge, close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more dangerous.
"Nothing you want to tell me, Aria?"
My fingers twisted in the sheet. "About what?"
His laugh was cold. "About where you really were this afternoon. About why you lied to me."