Chapter 73
Aria's POV
The pristine marble floors of the Harper family mansion seemed to gleam with silent judgment as I pushed open the heavy door. My arms were laden with shopping bags—Gucci, Jimmy Choo, and Tiffany's—visible evidence of my afternoon's retail therapy at Devon Kane's expense.
Victoria was arranging fresh roses in the foyer, her perfectly manicured fingers pausing mid-stem as she spotted me. Her eyes darted to the luxury shopping bags, a flash of naked envy crossing her features before she could mask it with her practiced maternal concern.
"Aria, darling," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "It seems you've been quite successful lately." She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hate to ask, but could you perhaps help the Harper Group with some... financial concerns? William is too proud to ask, but we're facing some cash flow issues with the merger preparations."
I set my bags down deliberately, enjoying the soft thud they made against the marble. "At least I'm spending money I've earned myself, Victoria. Unlike some people who only know how to spend others'."
The barb landed exactly as intended. Victoria's smile froze, the corners of her mouth tightening imperceptibly.
William emerged from his study, his silver-streaked hair impeccably combed, his face a mask of controlled irritation. "Victoria, what are you doing?"
"Just catching up with Aria," she replied smoothly.
"I heard you asking for money." His voice was sharp. "Don't ask her for anything."
I gathered my shopping bags, heading toward the sweeping staircase. At the third step, I paused and turned. "Dad, time is running short. You should seriously consider my proposal about the Hampton house." I met his eyes steadily. "I won't compromise on this one."
The muscle in his jaw twitched—a tell-tale sign of his discomfort that I'd learned to recognize years ago. Without waiting for his response, I continued up the stairs, the click of my heels against marble echoing through the vaulted ceiling.
In my bedroom, a large white box tied with an elegant blue ribbon waited on my bed. My phone pinged with a message from Marianne: [The Pierre Montagne wedding gown and jewelry just arrived at your place. Hope you love them. You'll be the most beautiful Blake bride ever.]
I opened the box, revealing a stunning white gown with delicate lace overlay. Beside it, nestled in blue velvet, lay a Tiffany diamond necklace. The craftsmanship was exquisite—exactly what I would have chosen myself if this wedding were real.
Guilt squeezed my chest as I ran my fingers over the fine fabric. "I'm sorry, Marianne," I whispered to the empty room. "You've always been kind to me, just like Mom's best friend should be. But I can't marry Ethan. Not after what he did."
The exhaustion of maintaining so many facades—the dutiful daughter, the excited bride-to-be, Devon's temporary lover—settled into my bones. After a hot shower that did little to wash away my troubles, I collapsed onto my bed, quickly falling into a restless sleep where Devon's steely eyes haunted my dreams.
---
"Could you pass the salt, Aria?"
The strained politeness in my father's voice broke the silence at breakfast the next morning. I slid the crystal salt cellar toward him, noticing how the table had been arranged to isolate me—Victoria and William at one end, Scarlett beside them, and me alone at the far side.
William barely touched his eggs before pushing his chair back. "The stock dropped another two points yesterday. I need to return some emails." Victoria immediately stood to follow him, her hand possessively resting on his shoulder.
Once they left, Scarlett's saccharine smile emerged. "Looks like Daddy is still deeply disappointed in you." She delicately cut a small piece of her fruit. "Your proposal about the beach house isn't going anywhere."
I continued eating calmly, cutting my medium-rare steak with surgical precision. "The stairs have been quite slippery lately. You should be careful going up and down, Scarlett." I looked up, meeting her eyes. "Especially in your... particular condition."
My voice was quiet enough that it wouldn't carry to the study where my father had retreated, but the message was crystal clear.
Scarlett's fork clattered against her plate, her face draining of color despite her attempt to maintain her smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about, sister."
I allowed myself a small, cold smile. "Let's hope it stays that way."
Later that night, a sharp knock at my bedroom door jolted me from my review of the wedding timeline. Without waiting for my response, my father pushed the door open, his imposing figure silhouetted against the hallway light.
"I've considered your proposal," he announced without preamble, closing the door behind him.
I set aside my tablet, straightening my posture. "And?"
"I agree that the Hampton beach house should rightfully be yours." He began pacing. "But there's a complication. Victoria used it as collateral for a loan the company needed."
"I find that hard to believe," I replied, keeping my voice level. "The Harper Group is ranked in the top 200 on the Forbes list. Surely you could resolve a mortgage on one beach house."
William's expression darkened. "We're facing difficulties with digital transformation. The Blake investment is critical for us now." He ran a hand through his silver hair. "After the wedding, I'll find a way to—"
"Like you promised four years ago?" I cut him off. "When you said I could always stay at Mom's beach house, but then let Scarlett turn it into her weekend party venue?" The bitterness I'd been suppressing bubbled to the surface. "Your promises don't mean much these days, Dad."
His face cycled through shades of red and white, but he had no response. Without another word, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the paintings on my wall.
I waited, counting to thirty before silently approaching the door. Through the crack, I could hear William and Victoria talking in hushed, urgent tones in the hallway.
"Never bring this up again," my father said, his voice tight with frustration. "She's more difficult than I anticipated."
"It's because she's exactly like Elizabeth," he continued, his words piercing my heart. "Hard as steel, completely unsentimental."
Victoria's voice was soothing, calculated. "Don't worry, darling. There are other ways to make her cooperate."
I leaned against the door frame, tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. The comparison to my mother should have been a compliment, but in my father's voice, it was an indictment. I swallowed hard, forcing back the emotion. This wasn't the time for tears—it was time for strategy.
Sleep evaded me that night. I sat by my window, watching the city lights flicker across Manhattan's skyline, each glimmer like a thought dancing through my mind. The beach house wasn't just property—it was the last tangible piece of my mother I had left. In its sunlit rooms and weathered deck boards lived my memories of her: teaching me to swim, reading books on rainy afternoons, laughing as we built sandcastles that the tide would inevitably claim.
I traced the outline of my mother's photograph on my nightstand. "They won't take this from me too," I whispered to her smiling face.
As dawn broke over the city, casting my bedroom in pale gold, I finalized my mental checklist. Today's wedding was merely a chess move—appearing the dutiful daughter while positioning my pieces for the real game. My white dress would be armor, my smile a weapon. Let Victoria and Scarlett believe they had won. Let my father think I had surrendered.
---
On the morning of the wedding, I descended the grand staircase in Pierre Montagne's custom wedding gown, the Tiffany blue diamond necklace catching the morning light streaming through the tall windows. My hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, exactly as the wedding planner had suggested.
At the bottom of the stairs stood Scarlett, wearing a white dress so similar to mine in style that it could only be deliberate. The difference was in the quality—hers was clearly a last-minute knockoff, lacking the craftsmanship of my designer gown.
"Oh my God," she gasped with obviously fake surprise. "I had no idea our dresses would be so similar!"
William entered from the dining room, glancing between us. His eyes lingered on Scarlett, his expression softening in a way it never did for me. "You both look beautiful. There's no need to change."
The implication was clear—he was refusing to ask Scarlett to back down.
I slipped on my oversized Chanel sunglasses, a smile playing at my lips. "You're right, Dad. We're definitely not wearing the same thing." I looked directly at Scarlett. "After all, this face makes all the difference."
Without waiting for a response, I walked toward the door, the soft swish of my gown punctuating my exit. Through the reflection in the glass door, I could see Scarlett trembling with rage, her perfectly arranged facade cracking at the seams.