Chapter 38
Aria’s POV
Devon stood in the center of my living room, looking somehow both out of place and perfectly at home among my eclectic furnishings. He wore the same impeccable suit from the club, not a wrinkle in sight despite the late hour.
"I thought you said you and Ethan were over," he finally said, his voice dangerously quiet.
"We are," I crossed my arms defensively. "What you saw tonight was—"
"What I saw," he cut me off, "was you and Blake looking very much like a reunited couple."
"It's complicated," I said, echoing my earlier response to Christopher.
"Explain." It wasn't a request, but a command.
I bristled at his tone. "I don't owe you an explanation, Kane. Our arrangement is strictly professional, remember? With benefits that don't include exclusivity or explanations."
His jaw tightened. "You're planning to marry him."
"I'm not—" I started, then paused. "How did you know about that?"
"New York is smaller than you think," he replied cryptically. "When is this supposed engagement happening?"
I looked away. "After our month is up. My father is insisting on the merger between Harper and Blake, and the engagement announcement is supposed to seal the deal."
Devon moved closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "And you're just going along with this?"
"I have my reasons," I said carefully.
"Such as?"
"Such as none of your business," I snapped, growing irritated with his interrogation. "Why do you care anyway? Jealous, Mr. Kane?"
His expression darkened, and for a moment, I thought I'd pushed too far. "I'm not jealous," he said coldly. "I simply dislike being lied to."
"I never lied to you."
"Omission is still deception, Aria."
"Fine," I conceded. "I should have mentioned it. But it doesn't change anything between us. Our arrangement stands until the end of the month, as agreed."
Devon studied me, his gray eyes intense. "Are you actually going to marry him?"
There was something in his voice—a tension I couldn't quite identify. Was it really possible that Devon Kane cared who I married?
I couldn't resist pushing. "Devon," I said, deliberately using his first name, "don't tell me you're actually starting to like me?"
His response was swift and unexpected. He closed the distance between us in one stride, his hand gripping my chin firmly but not painfully, tilting my face up to his.
"You think this is a game?" he growled, his face inches from mine.
Before I could answer, his mouth crashed down on mine in a kiss that was more punishment than passion. But as his lips moved against mine, the anger transformed into something else—hunger, possession, desire. His hands moved to my waist, lifting me effortlessly as I instinctively wrapped my legs around him.
He carried me backward until my back hit the wall, his body pressing into mine. I gasped as his lips moved to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my throat, his voice rough.
But I couldn't. Despite everything—his coldness at the club, his interrogation, his jealousy he wouldn't admit to—I wanted him. My body responded to his touch like it had been made for him alone.
His hands were everywhere, pushing my dress up, finding the clasp of my bra. I tugged at his jacket, needing to feel his skin against mine. We were frantic, desperate, days of tension exploding in a moment.
Then suddenly, a sharp, searing pain tore through my abdomen, stealing my breath. I gasped, but not in pleasure this time. The cramp was so intense that I curled inward, nearly falling as Devon released me in surprise.
"Aria?" His voice changed instantly, concern replacing desire.
Another wave of pain hit me, and I doubled over, clutching my stomach. "It's—" I couldn't even finish the sentence as another cramp took hold.
Devon's hand was on my back, steadying me. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Just—cramps," I managed to say through gritted teeth. "It's that time—"
Understanding dawned on his face, followed by determination. Before I could protest, he'd scooped me into his arms.
"I don't need a hospital," I insisted weakly as he grabbed my keys from the bowl by the door. "This happens sometimes. It'll pass."
"You're pale as a ghost and can barely stand," Devon countered, his tone brooking no argument as he wrapped his suit jacket around me. "I'm taking you to a doctor."
I wanted to argue further, mortified that this was happening in front of him of all people, but another wave of pain silenced me. Devon carried me down to his car, ignoring my feeble protests about making a scene. He placed me gently in the passenger seat, buckling me in when my hands shook too much to do it myself.
The drive was a blur of pain and embarrassment. Devon drove with precision but urgency, occasionally glancing over with an expression I couldn't read in my pain-addled state. We arrived at what was clearly a private medical facility, not the chaotic emergency room I'd expected.
A nurse immediately took me to an examination room while Devon spoke quietly with the receptionist. A doctor—a kind-faced woman in her fifties—arrived moments later.
After an examination and several questions that made me want to sink through the floor in embarrassment, she prescribed medication for the severe menstrual cramps and recommended rest.
"Your husband seems very concerned," she commented as she wrote out a prescription. "It's good that he brought you in."
I didn't correct her assumption. It was easier than explaining whatever Devon and I actually were to each other.
When the doctor left, I expected Devon to return, but minutes passed with no sign of him. Eventually, a nurse came in with discharge papers.
"Mr. Kane had to step out to handle some paperwork," she explained. "He's arranged for everything to be taken care of."
Of course he had. Efficient as always, even when making his exit without a word. I shouldn't have been surprised, and yet the disappointment stung more sharply than I wanted to admit.
The medication began to take effect as I was shown to a private recovery room, the pain dulling to a manageable ache. Exhaustion washed over me, the combination of emotional stress, physical pain, and whatever they'd given me pulling me under. As I drifted off, I thought I felt a hand gently brushing hair from my forehead, but it must have been my imagination or the beginning of a dream.
In that dream, my mother sat beside me, looking exactly as she had before her illness—vibrant, beautiful, her eyes filled with concern.
"Why, Aria?" she asked, her voice echoing strangely. "Why would you let the woman who hurt me into our home? Into your life?"
I tried to answer, but no sound came out. My mother's face began to fade, replaced by Victoria's smug smile.
"Mom!" I gasped, jolting awake.
"Aria? Are you okay?"
It wasn't my mother's voice, nor Victoria's. It was Sophia, sitting in a chair beside my bed, her face creased with worry.