Chapter 296
Aria’s POV
I picked up the letter, folded it carefully, and tucked it into a drawer. "Nothing. She made her choices. She gets to live with the consequences. But..." I paused, something uncomfortable shifting in my chest. "I'll talk to David White. Make sure the DA knows she didn't have knowledge of the murder. It won't get her out of the trafficking charges, but at least she won't be facing conspiracy to commit murder on top of everything else."
Devon's hand settled on my shoulder, warm and grounding. "That's generous of you."
"It's not generous. It's just... fair." I looked up at him. "I'm trying to figure out the difference between justice and revenge. Between holding people accountable and just being vindictive. And I think... I think if Scarlett really didn't know, then she doesn't deserve to pay for Victoria's crimes."
"Even after everything she did to you?"
"She'll pay for what she did. The trafficking, the lies, the manipulation. But not for something she didn't do." I stood, feeling suddenly restless. "Is that naive? Thinking we can draw those kinds of lines?"
"No." Devon pulled me against him, his chin resting on top of my head. "I think it means you're a better person than most people in your position would be. Including me."
"You would have just killed her and been done with it," I said, only half joking.
"Probably." His tone was matter-of-fact. "But that's why you're good for me. You have a conscience. You make me try to be less of a sociopath."
Despite everything, I laughed. "That's a low bar, Kane."
"And yet I'm still working on clearing it." He kissed my temple. "Come on. Elsa made dinner and she'll be devastated if we don't eat it while it's hot."
I let him lead me to the dining room, where the woman who'd raised me more faithfully than my own father had prepared my favorite meal—chicken piccata with roasted vegetables, comfort food from childhood that suddenly made my eyes sting with unshed tears.
"Elsa," I said as she set the plate in front of me. "You didn't have to—"
"Of course I did." She patted my shoulder with the same no-nonsense affection she'd shown me since I was a kid. "You've been through hell, my girl. The least I can do is make sure you're eating properly."
I caught her hand, squeezing it. "Thank you. For everything. For staying with me after my mother died, for testifying at the trial, for..." My voice cracked. "For being more of a parent than either of mine ever were."
Elsa's eyes went misty. "Oh, honey. You were always meant for better than what they gave you. I'm just glad you finally found it."
She disappeared back into the kitchen before I could completely break down. Devon, bless him, pretended not to notice me wiping my eyes as I cut into the chicken.
"She's right, you know," he said casually. "You were meant for better."
"And you think you're better?"
"Hell no." He took a bite of his own meal. "But I'm what you chose. That counts for something."
It did. God help me, it really did.
My phone buzzed during dessert—Elsa's famous chocolate mousse, which I was eating with perhaps more enthusiasm than was strictly dignified.
I glanced at the screen and felt my face break into a genuine smile for the first time in days.
Sophia. A string of photos, each one more vibrant than the last.
Her standing in front of the Colosseum, arms spread wide, face tilted toward the Roman sun. Another at the Trevi Fountain, mid-wish, her eyes closed and lips curved in something that looked like hope. The Sistine Chapel ceiling. The Spanish Steps. A tiny café with red-checkered tablecloths where she was holding up an obscenely large glass of wine and grinning like she'd found the secret to happiness.
The accompanying text made my chest tight: "Aria—I'm in ROME. Can you believe it? I threw a coin in the fountain and wished for you, Devon, and baby Kane to be healthy and happy forever. Next week: Florence to see the David, then Venice for overpriced gondola rides. Italy is MAGIC. Also, I've gained five pounds from pasta alone and I regret nothing. Love you. Miss you. Heard about the verdict—hope you can finally breathe."
I showed Devon the photos, watching his expression soften as he scrolled through them.
"She looks happy," he observed.
"She does." And God, she really did. There was a lightness in Sophia's smile that I hadn't seen since before her mother got sick. Like she'd been carrying a weight for so long that she'd forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight, and now that the burden was gone, she was rediscovering joy.
I typed back quickly: "You look AMAZING. So proud of you for doing this. The verdict came through—guilty on all counts. It's over. Devon has turned the apartment into a baby sanctuary and I'm eating my feelings in chocolate mousse. Come back when you're ready—we'll be here. You're still going to be this baby's godmother, right?"
The response was almost instantaneous: "DUH. I'm already planning the most inappropriate christening gift. Thinking a onesie that says 'My Godmother is Cooler Than Your Godmother.' Too much?"
"Perfect," I sent back, laughing despite the tears pricking my eyes.
"You okay?" Devon asked, because of course he noticed.
"Yeah." I wiped my eyes with my napkin. "I'm happy for her. Really happy. She deserves to be free from all the bullshit that's been weighing her down."
"So do you," Devon said quietly.
I met his eyes across the table. "I'm getting there."
Over the next few weeks, more photos arrived. Sophia in Florence, posing with a street artist who'd painted her portrait. Sophia in Venice, feeding pigeons in St. Mark's Square despite the signs saying not to. Sophia in Milan, drowning in designer shopping bags and looking absolutely delighted about it.
Each photo was a reminder that not everyone in my life was damaged or damaging. That friendship could survive distance and tragedy. That sometimes the bravest thing you could do was let someone go and trust they'd come back when they were ready.