Chapter 241
Aria's POV
Roman pulled the Bentley to a smooth stop outside Devon's building. I thanked him quietly as he held the door, his stoic expression betraying nothing of what had transpired at the hospital or my father's home before that. The doorman nodded respectfully as I passed through the marble lobby, my reflection in the polished surfaces looking like a stranger—pale, withdrawn, with angry purple marks forming around my neck.
The elevator ride to Devon's penthouse was silent and swift. I used his key card—the one he'd given me "for convenience" a week ago—and stepped into the vast, empty space of his apartment.
I walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows, drawn to the glittering tapestry of Manhattan spread out below. My fingers instinctively rose to my throat, gently tracing the tender bruises my father's hands had left there. Each touch sent a dull pain through my body, a physical reminder of everything I'd lost today.
"Homeless. How ironic," I whispered to my reflection in the glass. "Twenty-four years old and I don't have a home to go to."
The Harper mansion had never truly felt like home after my mother died, but it had been a place to exist. Now, even that was gone. And this penthouse—this beautiful, cold space—was just another transaction. A place I occupied as part of our arrangement, not somewhere I belonged.
Exhaustion washed over me in waves. I turned from the windows and headed toward the master bathroom, desperate for a hot shower to wash away the hospital smell and the memory of my father's rage.
I had just reached for the bathroom door handle when it swung open from inside. Devon stood there, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still damp. He leaned against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow. His eyes briefly flickered to the bruises on my neck, darkening slightly before returning to their usual cool gray.
"Planning to lock me out or lock intruders in?" he asked, his voice deliberately casual, though I caught the tension in his jaw.
As if there's much difference, I thought, but didn't say. Instead, I sighed, too tired for games. "I just want to be alone for a while."
"Hand me that towel," Devon said, pointing to the rack behind me. His voice was commanding as always, but something in his eyes seemed to search my face.
As I turned to reach for it, he suddenly pulled me into the bathroom with him. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, not painfully but with unmistakable possession. "What's with the act? We've slept together how many times, and now you're playing the innocent?"
Looking at my pale face and the exhaustion in my eyes, something in Devon's expression shifted. The hardness melted away, replaced by something I rarely saw there—uncertainty. He released his grip on my arm, his voice softening almost imperceptibly.
"Go rest. I'll finish up here." He gently pushed me back toward the door, his fingers lingering on my shoulder for a second longer than necessary before he let go, leaving me standing alone in the hallway, slightly bewildered by his sudden change in demeanor.
---
Hours later, I sat on the edge of the bed, wearing silk pajamas I'd left here weeks ago. The pain medication the doctor had prescribed was making the room feel slightly out of focus, but it couldn't dull the persistent ache in my throat or the deeper wounds that had been reopened tonight.
I felt the mattress shift as Devon sat behind me. His fingers traced lightly over the bruises on my neck, barely touching them. The gentle pressure of his fingertips contrasted sharply with the memory of my father's choking grip. I shivered involuntarily at his touch.
"Devon, I don't have a home anymore," I said quietly, my voice carrying a tremor I couldn't quite control. The admission felt like surrendering something I'd been clutching tightly.
"Not having a home? I'll give you one," he replied, his tone carrying that familiar hint of arrogance and certainty. But beneath it, I detected something else—a warmth, an invitation that wasn't part of our arrangement.
I turned to look at him, searching his face for signs he was joking. His expression remained serious, his eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. "Our contract expires in a week."
Devon's brow furrowed. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and I watched him swallow hard before speaking. "What, you think I'm not good enough for you?"
I shook my head, unsure how to respond to this unexpected offer. My heart beat a little faster as I tried to decipher what he was really asking.
"If Ethan hadn't cheated," Devon suddenly changed course, his voice cooling noticeably, "where would you be right now?"
I froze, caught off-guard by the question. His eyes had narrowed slightly, and his shoulders tensed as he awaited my answer.
"Would you have married him?" Devon's eyes were sharp, intent. His fingers, which had been resting lightly on the bed between us, curled into a fist.
I could have lied. Perhaps I should have. But after everything that had happened today—after facing the ultimate betrayal from my father—I didn't have the energy for anything but honesty.
"Probably," I admitted, watching his face carefully. "If he hadn't betrayed me, we'd likely be married by now."
Something flickered in Devon's eyes—a brief flash of something raw and wounded—before his expression hardened completely. His entire body seemed to shut down, the openness of moments before replaced by a cold distance. He released me and stood up, striding toward the door with deliberate steps.
"Goodnight, Aria," he said coldly, without looking back. His voice had returned to the detached tone he used in business meetings, erasing any trace of the man who had just offered me a home.