Chapter 9
Aria’s POV
Morning came with the harsh light of reality and a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch. I dragged myself to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of last night's makeup and, I hoped, some of the humiliation.
By the time I arrived at the Stellar Impressions office, I was running late. Sophia was already at her desk, eyebrows raised at my tardiness but saying nothing about it. On my desk was a stack of messages, most of which I ignored, but one caught my eye—Ryan Winters had sent an apologetic email, saying he felt terrible about last night and offering to introduce me to some genuine celebrity clients as compensation.
I sighed, considering whether to accept his olive branch. Ryan had known me since we were kids, neighbors in our Upper East Side bubble before I'd struck out on my own. His connections in entertainment circles were valuable, especially now.
"Good news," I told Sophia, forwarding her Ryan's email. "Ryan's feeling guilty enough to share some of his celebrity roster with us."
"About time that party boy did something useful," she replied, scanning the names. "This could help with our cash flow problem."
The mention of our finances made me check our accounts again. The numbers were even more alarming than yesterday. Without a major client signing in the next two weeks, we wouldn't make payroll—which meant I couldn't help with her mother's surgery costs as I'd promised.
The weight of responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders. I stared at my phone, contemplating whether to follow up with Devon Kane about our proposal. The professional and personal were hopelessly tangled now, and my pride screamed against reaching out after the way he'd dismissed me. But the practical side of me—the part responsible for sixteen employees' livelihoods—knew his contract could save Stellar Impressions.
After several false starts, I composed a brief, professional message:
[Mr. Kane,
Despite our personal disagreement, I believe Stellar Impressions can deliver exceptional value for Kane Technologies. I've incorporated your feedback and would like to present our revised proposal at your convenience.
Regards,
Aria Harper]
I hit send before I could change my mind, then set my phone face-down on the desk. Devon hadn't responded to my message by the time I left to meet Marianne, and I tried to convince myself I was relieved rather than disappointed.
---
The Blake family townhouse in the Upper East Side was a stately brownstone that had been in their family for generations. As I approached the entrance, I spotted Ethan on the steps, clearly waiting for me. He looked terrible—eyes bloodshot, hair uncombed, wearing a rumpled Oxford shirt that was a far cry from his usual polished appearance.
"Aria," he began as I approached, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
"I'm here to see your mother, Ethan. Not you."
"Please," he persisted, stepping closer. "Just hear me out. What happened with Scarlett—it wasn't serious. She's been throwing herself at me for months, using the charity events as an excuse to get close. You know how she is."
"Your mother is waiting," I replied coldly, moving to step around him.
Ethan blocked my path. "It was one mistake, Aria. One stupid night."
Before I could respond, the front door opened and Marianne appeared, elegant as always in a simple black dress. Her face lit up when she saw me, though her smile faltered at the obvious tension between us.
"Aria, darling," she embraced me warmly. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course, Marianne," I replied, squeezing her hands affectionately.
She turned to Ethan with a stern expression. "Ethan, go get the car ready. You're driving us to Greenwood."
"Mom—"
"Now, Ethan," her voice was gentle but firm.
With a last pleading look at me, Ethan descended the steps toward the garage.
"He's truly sorry," Marianne said quietly once he was out of earshot. "Not that it excuses anything."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak on the subject.
"How are you holding up?" she asked, studying my face. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," I lied. "Just busy with work."
She didn't press, leading me inside to wait for Ethan to bring the car around. I noticed her glancing at my phone when it buzzed with a notification, and I saw a flicker of concern cross her face when I checked it quickly to see if Devon had responded. He hadn't; it was just a social media alert.
When Ethan pulled up in his BMW, I hesitated, but Marianne took my arm. "Let him do this one thing, at least," she murmured. "For Elizabeth's sake."
The ride to Greenwood Cemetery was mercifully silent, with only the soft classical music Marianne had selected filling the car. As we drove through the gates of the historic Brooklyn burial ground, a familiar heaviness settled in my chest.
My mother's grave was situated on a gentle slope with a view of the Manhattan skyline she had loved. The headstone was simple but elegant—black granite with her name, Elizabeth Grace Harper, etched in gold letters. Below her name were the words she had chosen herself: "Love fearlessly, live authentically."
As we stood before the grave, I felt tears sliding down my cheeks. Five years, and the pain was still raw. I missed her guidance, her laughter, her unwavering support.
Marianne placed a bouquet of white lilies—my mother's favorites—against the headstone. "Hello, old friend," she said softly. "We're here, just as we promised."
I knelt to brush away some fallen leaves from the base of the stone. "Hi, Mom," I whispered, my voice catching. "I'm trying to be strong, like you taught me. But it's hard sometimes."
Ethan stood a respectful distance away, giving us space. I could feel his eyes on me, but I focused on the memories of my mother—her smile as she taught me to bake cookies, her fierce pride when I won my first design competition, her gentle wisdom when I came to her heartbroken over my first crush.
"She always said you had her spirit," Marianne commented, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Stubborn and brave."
I smiled through my tears. "She also told me never to compromise myself for anyone else. To never let my value be determined by someone else's opinion."
Marianne nodded, her eyes glistening. "Elizabeth always knew her worth."
We stood in silence for several minutes, lost in our memories. Eventually, Marianne stepped back, giving me a moment alone with the grave. As she walked toward Ethan, I heard him ask quietly, "Is she checking her phone for messages from someone?"
I turned away, my jaw tight. Even here, at my mother's grave, Ethan's jealousy found a way to surface. I placed my hand on the cool stone and made a silent promise to my mother: I would find out the truth about her death, about what Victoria might have done, and I would reclaim what was rightfully mine—not just the Hamptons beach house, but my sense of self-worth and independence.
When I rejoined Marianne and Ethan, I was composed, my resolve strengthened. Whatever challenges awaited me—with my father, with Devon Kane, with my struggling company—I would face them head-on, just as Elizabeth Harper's daughter should.
"Aria," Ethan said softly as we walked back to the car, "I want you to know that I'll do whatever it takes to help you through this difficult time. If your company needs support—"
"Thank you, Ethan," I cut him off firmly, "but I'll handle my business myself."
Just then, my phone vibrated in my purse. I pulled it out instinctively, expecting another text from Sophia about work. Instead, the email notification made my heart skip a beat. Devon Kane.
With suddenly trembling fingers, I tapped the screen to open it. Time seemed to slow as I waited for the message to load. I was vaguely aware of Ethan watching my face, of Marianne gently pulling him toward the car to give me privacy.
I stared at my phone in disbelief, the two-letter response from Devon Kane glowing on the screen like a slap in the face.
"Busy."