Chapter 60
Aria’s POV
I ended the call with Ethan and tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, a wave of disgust washing over me. The thought of his lips on mine after they had touched Scarlett's made my stomach turn. Had he even brushed his teeth between kissing her and apologizing to me? The very idea made me want to scrub my skin raw.
By the time I reached my apartment, the disgust had settled into something colder, more calculated. I kicked off my heels and padded barefoot to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline glittering in the distance. For the first time since leaving the Pantheon Hotel, I felt like I could breathe properly. There was a strange sense of liberation knowing that Ethan's betrayal no longer had the power to hurt me. But alongside that freedom was an odd emptiness—the hollow space where love or at least the illusion of it had once lived.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass: hair slightly mussed, lips still swollen from Devon's kisses, Ethan's diamond glinting mockingly on my finger. I twisted the ring, watching the light fracture and scatter. What a tangled web I'd woven—and how quickly I was becoming comfortable being the spider at its center.
---
"Darling, what do you think of this one? The buttercream has just a hint of lavender." Marianne Blake pushed another sample of wedding cake toward me, her eyes bright with enthusiasm that I couldn't begin to match.
We were seated in a private tasting room at Céleste Patisserie, an exclusive bakery on the Upper East Side where a single wedding cake could cost more than most people's monthly rent. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting a warm glow over the dozens of cake samples arranged on silver platters before us.
"It's nice," I replied noncommittally, watching Marianne's face fall slightly before she recovered with practiced grace.
"Well, there's still the chocolate ganache with gold leaf to try. Ethan has always adored chocolate." She signaled to the pastry chef, who hurried over with another sample.
I'd spent the past week being dragged from one wedding vendor to another—florists who charged a thousand dollars for a single centerpiece, calligraphers who hand-lettered invitations with ink made from rare minerals, and now this bakery where even the air seemed infused with wealth and exclusivity.
"I was thinking we could do a six-tier cake, with different flavors for each layer. The Blake family has always had grand wedding celebrations," Marianne continued, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring my lack of enthusiasm.
"Six tiers seems excessive for three hundred guests," I murmured, dabbing at my lips with a linen napkin.
"Oh, but darling, it's not about practicality. It's about the statement. And speaking of statements, we should discuss your dress formally. I've arranged an appointment with Pierre next week."
I nodded absently, my mind wandering to Devon. Ten days had passed since our night at the Pantheon, and there had been nothing but silence from him. Our contract was over—that much was clear—but something in me had expected... what? A text? A call? Some acknowledgment that what had happened between us was more than just business?
"Aria? Are you listening, dear?" Marianne's voice pulled me back to the present.
"Yes, of course. Pierre next week," I replied automatically.
Later that afternoon, we visited Montfort Champagne's private tasting room in Manhattan. The sommelier, a slim Frenchman with an impeccable accent, droned on about the house's legacy dating back to the 1700s while pouring flutes of bubbling liquid.
"This is the vintage we served at my wedding," Marianne reminisced, sipping the champagne appreciatively. "It's a Blake family tradition to serve Montfort at all significant celebrations."
I nodded, feigning interest while my thoughts continued to drift. The champagne tasted expensive but empty, much like the future that was being meticulously planned for me.
"And we'll want to discuss the engagement photos soon. I've secured Henri Devereaux—he photographed Princess Eugenie's wedding, you know. He's frightfully expensive, but William insisted we spare no expense for his only daughter's wedding."
My father's sudden generosity when it came to my wedding was ironic, considering his decades of emotional parsimony. But of course, this wasn't about me—it was about the merger, about Blake Fashion appearing united with Harper Group, about stock prices and market perception.
"That sounds perfect," I said, the lie slipping easily from my lips.
Marianne smiled, patting my hand. "You're going to make such a beautiful bride, Aria. Ethan is a lucky man."
If she only knew.
---
"Aria, Kane Technology finally confirmed! They've accepted our new proposal—the blockchain integration system promotion project is finally good to go!" Sofia burst into my office the next day, practically vibrating with excitement.
I looked up from my laptop, processing her words. "When did they confirm?"
"Just this morning. The email came in around ten." Sofia's brow furrowed slightly. "Are you not happy? This is huge for us."
I forced a smile. "No, I'm thrilled. It's just been a long week with all the wedding preparations."
Sofia rolled her eyes sympathetically. "I can imagine. Marianne has probably scheduled every minute of your life between now and the ceremony."
"Something like that," I murmured, my mind elsewhere. Ten days of silence from Devon, and now this business confirmation—delivered through official channels rather than from him personally. It seemed our transaction was truly complete.
"We should celebrate! I've already booked a table at Luca's for the team tonight. Their new chef is supposedly a miracle worker with truffles."
I shook my head. "You all go ahead. I have some things to take care of."
"Are you sure? Even workaholics need to celebrate sometimes, boss." Sofia gave me a concerned look.
"Absolutely. Consider it my treat—put it on the company card."
After Sofia left, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. The Kane Technology building was visible in the distance, its glass façade reflecting the afternoon sun. Was Devon there now, moving on with his life as though our night together had meant nothing?
I thought of how he had held me while he slept, his arms tight around me as though afraid I might disappear. I remembered the peaceful expression on his face in those quiet moments before dawn—so different from his usual mask of cold control.
My phone buzzed with a text from Ryan: [Free for drinks tonight? Have some potential new clients to discuss.]
I replied quickly: [Absolutely. Williamsburg Social at 8?]
Work could wait. The team would celebrate without me. Tonight, I needed a friend and a distraction—preferably in that order.