Chapter 265
Aria's POV
The ceramic bowl was warm against my palms. I sat at the small table by the bed, spooning the last of the French onion soup into my mouth, the melted Gruyère still clinging to my lips. The broth settled in my stomach, bringing a comfort I hadn't felt in days.
Devon stood by the window, his back to me. His fingers held an unlit cigarette—a habit I'd noticed when he was restless. The city lights cast his silhouette in sharp relief against the glass.
"Thank you, Devon," I said softly.
He didn't turn. "Get some sleep." He walked to the door, and I heard it click shut behind him.
I remembered another night, years ago. My mother had brought this same soup when I was sick with flu. Elizabeth Harper, elegant even in her private moments, had sat beside my bed and fed me spoonfuls until the fever broke.
"Your mom loved you so much," I whispered to the tiny life inside me. "I wish you could have met her."
The tears came then, hot and unexpected. I wiped them away quickly, angry at my own weakness.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to the mattress shifting beneath someone's weight. My eyes flew open in the darkness.
Devon.
He'd showered. I could smell the clean scent of his soap, see the damp ends of his black hair. He wore only dark gray sleep pants, hanging low on his hips. His bare torso was all muscle and sharp angles, illuminated by the city lights filtering through the curtains.
I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even. My heart hammered against my ribs.
The mattress dipped as he slid under the covers. Then his arm came around me, heavy and warm. His large hand settled on my stomach, right where the baby was.
The possessiveness of that touch stole my breath.
His palm was hot against the fabric of his oversized T-shirt I'd borrowed. Not demanding, just... there. Claiming. His breath was steady against the back of my neck, and gradually, my rigid muscles began to relax.
He wants this baby, I realized. Devon Kane actually wants to keep this baby.
But what about me? What did he want from me?
The questions churned in my mind as his breathing deepened into sleep. His hand never moved from my stomach.
---
I lay awake for what felt like hours before finally turning in his arms. In the darkness, his gray eyes were open, watching me.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was low, rough.
I traced a small circle on his bare chest with my fingertip. "Devon..."
His hand caught mine, stilling the movement. "What?"
"Tomorrow..." I hesitated. "Can I go out?"
His arm tightened around me instantly. "Go out where?"
The suspicion in his tone made me tense. "Not far. Just—the company needs me. There are projects—"
"Projects more important than the baby?"
"No!" I scrambled to explain. "I just... I'm sorry I didn't tell you. About the pregnancy. I should have—"
"Yes. You should have."
I shifted closer, letting my voice soften. "I promise I won't do anything reckless. I'll listen to you. Please?"
The silence stretched between us. I thought he'd fallen asleep when his voice cut through the darkness.
"I think you're worse when you're here alone. Your mind goes to dangerous places."
I didn't understand what he meant, but then he added: "We'll go out tomorrow. Get some rest now."
Relief flooded through me. "Really?"
He closed his eyes, his hand still resting on my stomach. No more words came.
I pressed against his warmth, but my mind wouldn't quiet. I'd thought about it before—being with Devon properly. Not as part of a contract or an arrangement. Actually being together.
But Eleanor's threats, Evelyn's existence, the vast gap between our worlds... it all made the idea seem ridiculous. Childish.
---
Morning light woke me. Devon's side of the bed was cold.
I dressed in the comfortable clothes he'd provided—soft leggings and a cashmere sweater—and made my way downstairs. The apartment was quiet, elegant in the way only old money could achieve.
Emily was setting the dining table. She smiled when she saw me. "Good morning, Miss Harper."
I stopped short.
The table didn't hold the usual croissants and coffee. Instead, a bowl of steaming seafood porridge sat waiting, rich with the scent of ginger and scallions.
"This is..."
"Mr. Kane gave specific instructions this morning," Emily explained. "He said to follow Elsa's recipe exactly."
My breath caught. Devon contacted Elsa?
I sat slowly, picking up the spoon with shaking hands. The first taste brought memories flooding back—Sunday mornings when my mother was alive, Elsa humming in the kitchen, the world still safe and whole.
The porridge was exactly as I remembered. Rich, comforting, made with care.
My eyes burned with tears I refused to shed. Every decision I'd made, every wall I'd built—Devon was methodically breaking them down. And I didn't know if I should be grateful or terrified.
I ate every bite.
I waited in the living room after breakfast, watching the city move below. It was nearly noon when I heard the front door open.
Devon walked in carrying a distinctive blue paper bag from Levain Bakery. His tie was loosened, and there were shadows under his eyes that spoke of too little sleep.
He saw me on the couch and scowled. "Still sitting there daydreaming? Come eat something."
I followed him to the dining room, where he set the bag on the table. Inside were still-warm chocolate chip cookies, massive and studded with melting chocolate chunks.
My chest tightened. These cookies. I'd taken the subway to the Upper West Side every weekend during my Princeton years just to wait in line for them. It had been my one indulgence during lean months.
How did he know?
"Would I buy it for anyone else besides you?" Devon's voice was soft. "Sit down."
I sat, staring at the bag. Part of me wanted to ask him—Do you want to marry me? Make this real?—but the words stuck in my throat.
"You want me to feed you myself?" He raised an eyebrow.