Chapter 68
Aria's POV
The Bentley's engine purred quietly as Devon drove through Manhattan's late-night streets. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, jaw clenched tight enough that I could see a muscle twitching beneath his skin. The silence between us felt weighted, oppressive.
I touched my forehead gingerly, wincing as my fingers brushed against the bandage. The doctor had been clear—the laceration might leave a scar. Perfect timing, with Ethan's and my wedding only three days away. The thought made my stomach twist, though not for the reasons anyone would expect.
"You never explained what happened back there," I said, breaking the silence. "With Noah in the VIP room."
Devon's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. "Business disagreement."
"About Caroline?" I pressed, recalling the name I'd heard before the glass hit me.
His only response was a slight tightening of his grip on the steering wheel. The streetlights cast rhythmic shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the darkness in his eyes.
My phone buzzed in my purse. When I pulled it out, Ethan's name flashed on the screen.
"I'm waiting at your father's house," Ethan said when I answered. "We need to talk about the merger details before tomorrow's meeting."
Before I could respond, Devon suddenly slammed on the brakes. My body jerked forward, the seatbelt cutting into my shoulder and sending a fresh stab of pain through my injured forehead.
"What the hell?" I gasped, pressing my palm against the bandage.
"Sorry," Devon said flatly. "Had to avoid a cyclist crossing against the light."
But the road ahead was empty, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror—stormy, possessive, jealous. The realization sent an unwelcome thrill through me.
I hung up abruptly. "Pull over," I ordered.
"What?"
"Pull. Over. Now." Each word was its own sentence, chiseled from ice.
Devon steered to the curb, the Bentley's tires crunching against fallen leaves. "You're injured. I'm taking you home."
"I'm perfectly capable of getting a cab."
A cruel smile twisted his lips. "Afraid Blake might discover our... arrangement?"
I returned his smile with equal coldness. "There's nothing to discover. Our business concluded weeks ago."
"Business?" He laughed without humor. "Is that what you call it? One month ago, when you climbed into my bed, you weren't so concerned about boundaries."
His words landed like a slap, reminding me of our first night together—of how I'd used him to get back at Ethan, of how that plan had spiraled so far out of control.
"Let me out," I said, reaching for the door handle.
Devon leaned across me, his arm brushing mine, his cologne—sandalwood and something uniquely him—filling my senses. He locked the door. "I'll take you home."
"This isn't up for debate."
"Your head is injured. It's past midnight. I'm driving you to the Harper estate."
I could have argued further, but the throbbing in my head was getting worse. Besides, something in his tone—beneath the arrogance and command—sounded almost like concern.
The rest of the drive passed in tense silence. As we pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of my father's Upper East Side mansion, I spotted Ethan pacing by the entrance, his tailored suit incongruous against the backdrop of the sprawling gardens.
When Ethan saw Devon's Bentley approaching, his expression morphed from anxiety to open hostility. The car had barely stopped when I pushed open the door, desperate to escape the suffocating tension inside.
Ethan immediately stepped forward, possessively sliding his arm around my waist. "Thank you for bringing my fiancée home, Mr. Kane," he said, voice dripping with false gratitude.
Devon exited the car, his tall frame unfolding with predatory grace. His eyes lingered on Ethan's arm around my waist for a beat too long.
"That cut on your forehead," Devon said to me, ignoring Ethan completely. "I'll take full responsibility for it."
The double meaning wasn't lost on me. Was he talking about the injury, or something more?
"Good night, Mr. Kane," I said formally.
Devon returned to his car, but as he drove away, I noticed he didn't actually leave. The Bentley pulled over at the corner, its headlights dimming but not turning off.
"What happened to your head?" Ethan asked as we walked through the garden toward the house. "And what the hell were you doing with Devon Kane?"
"It was an accident. A glass shattered near me at Elysium. Devon happened to be there and helped with medical attention."
Ethan's frown deepened. "That's quite the coincidence."
"The world is full of them," I replied evenly. "Why are you here so late?"
His expression shifted from suspicion to guilt. "My father made his final decision. He's not investing in Harper Group."
I kept my face carefully neutral. "You knew all along, didn't you?"
"I tried, Aria. I really did, but—"
"But what? Your father changed his mind? Or he was never planning to invest in the first place?"
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. "It's complicated. The board looked at the financials and decided the risk was too high."
I noticed movement behind one of the second-floor windows—Scarlett, watching us, her silhouette visible through the gauzy curtains.
"It's late," I said, conscious of our audience. "We should talk about this tomorrow."
Ethan caught my arm. "Aren't you upset? This merger was important to your father."
I hesitated, letting Scarlett see my apparent internal struggle. Then I turned my face up to Ethan, making sure the angle gave her a perfect view.
"You tried your best," I said softly, reaching up to brush my fingers against his cheek.
The hope that bloomed in his eyes was pathetic. I leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw, just below his ear.
"Good night, Ethan," I whispered, letting my lips linger a moment longer than necessary.
As he walked back to his car, visibly buoyed by what he mistook for forgiveness, I glanced up at the window. Scarlett had pressed one hand against the glass, her face contorted with jealousy and rage.
I smiled.
Inside, the mansion was quiet, but a strip of light beneath the study door told me my father was still awake. When I pushed it open, I found him standing by the fireplace, tumbler of scotch in hand.
"Where have you been?" he demanded without preamble.
"Out," I replied. "I'm twenty-four, Dad. I don't need a curfew."
"Blake called. The investment is off."
"I know. Ethan just told me."
"This is your fault," he said, voice rising. "If you'd been more accommodating, more focused on making this relationship work—"
"More accommodating?" I laughed bitterly. "You mean if I'd been more willing to sell myself for your business interests?"
"Don't be dramatic. This marriage is a strategic alliance, not a sale."
"You're right. A sale would at least be honest about the transaction."
My father drained his glass. "Your mother would be disappointed in you."
The mention of my mother ignited something dark and volatile inside me. "Don't you dare speak about her," I hissed. "Not when you replaced her before she was even cold in the ground."
"You ungrateful—"
"She knew, didn't she? Before she died. She knew about you and Victoria."
My father's face paled. "You're talking nonsense."
"Am I? Or are you afraid someone will realize you're not just a failed businessman but a killer too?"