The CEO's Midnight Remedy novel Chapter 18

**Dust Writes New Stories by Rei Holt Wilder**
**Chapter 18**

**Aria’s POV**

The ballroom unfolded before me like a scene from a dream—a delicate tapestry woven with threads of understated opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light casting a gentle, inviting glow that danced across the polished marble floor. Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing a breathtaking panorama of the Manhattan skyline, where the city’s towering silhouettes glimmered against the night sky.

Clusters of impeccably dressed men and women mingled throughout the expansive room, their hushed conversations punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter that echoed softly, like music in the air. I recognized several faces, their images familiar from the glossy pages of financial magazines and tech industry reports—venture capitalists with sharp suits, innovative tech entrepreneurs with bright ideas, and a few celebrities known for their keen investments in the digital realm. This gathering was not merely a social event; it was a confluence of wealth, power, and opportunity.

As waitstaff glided gracefully through the crowd, balancing trays laden with flutes of champagne and exquisite hors d’oeuvres, I politely declined a glass. I wanted to keep my mind sharp and focused. Instead, I began to search for Devon’s tall, unmistakable figure among the throngs of elegantly attired attendees.

Minutes ticked by, and my search turned fruitless. A creeping sense of unease settled within me. Though I had grown up in the lavish confines of William Harper’s mansion and had attended countless high-society events, this crowd felt altogether different. They operated on a level that eclipsed even my father’s elite circle. These were the individuals who held the power to finance innovations that could change the world—or, with a single miscalculated decision, obliterate them.

Tightening my grip around my portfolio, I reminded myself of the stakes. Stellar Impressions desperately needed this contract. My employees depended on it for their livelihoods, and I needed to prove my worth—not just to my father, not just to Ethan, but to myself. I was determined to succeed on my own terms.

After nearly twenty minutes of fruitless searching, I resolved to check the adjoining rooms. Perhaps Devon was engaged in private discussions elsewhere. I slipped through a side door into a quieter lounge area, where plush seating arrangements invited relaxation, and a small bar offered a refuge from the bustling ballroom.

And there he was.

Devon Kane sat alone in a corner, cradling a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. His dark blue suit was tailored to perfection, yet there was a weariness about him that I had not noticed before. The harsh lighting of the lounge accentuated the shadows beneath his eyes, revealing the toll of chronic insomnia that seemed to haunt him.

I approached him cautiously, half-expecting him to wave me away dismissively. As I drew near, he looked up, his expression inscrutable, a mask that revealed nothing.

“Mr. Kane,” I began, my voice steady but formal, “thank you for allowing me to attend tonight.”

He took a deliberate sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on mine. “Ms. Harper, I see you found me.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” I replied, gesturing to the empty seats that surrounded him. “I expected to find you in the main ballroom.”

“Too noisy,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. “I needed a moment of quiet.”

I nodded, understanding his need for solitude, and remained standing, as he had not invited me to take a seat. “I’ve brought the revised proposal as you requested. I believe it addresses all your concerns regarding digital integration and blockchain applications.”

Devon glanced at the portfolio I clutched tightly but made no move to take it. Instead, he signaled to the bartender. “Another Macallan. Neat.”

The bartender swiftly delivered the drink, and Devon pushed it toward the seat across from him—a silent invitation to join him. I sat down carefully, placing my portfolio on the small table that separated us.

“You have ten minutes to convince me,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Go.”

I opened my portfolio and began my presentation, striving to keep my voice steady and professional. I outlined our innovative marketing strategy for Kane Technology’s next-generation wearable devices, emphasizing the integration with NFT marketplaces and the burgeoning virtual fashion ecosystem. I explained how Stellar Impressions would elevate Kane Technology into not merely a tech company but a lifestyle brand that fully grasped the interplay between physical and digital identities.

Throughout my presentation, Devon remained impassive, his expression unreadable. He occasionally sipped his whiskey, but offered no outward reaction to my words. I pressed on, fueled by determination to make the most of the precious minutes I had been given.

“Our personalized marketing approach will target each demographic with customized messaging,” I continued, presenting him with detailed breakdowns. “We can adapt to any brand requirement and execute campaigns across all relevant platforms.”

As I spoke, I became acutely aware that Devon’s gaze had shifted. He was no longer focused on the presentation materials but on me—specifically, on the small beauty mark just above my collarbone, partially visible above the neckline of my dress. His intense scrutiny made me falter mid-sentence.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, instinctively adjusting my dress, feeling a rush of self-consciousness.

“And what service would that be?” I asked, my voice taut with indignation.

Devon’s gaze traveled deliberately down my body and back up again, his intent unmistakable. “Company. Conversation. Whatever else develops naturally between consenting adults.”

A rush of embarrassment and anger surged through me. “That’s prostitution.”

“That’s business,” he corrected smoothly, his confidence unwavering. “No different than the games you were playing when you came to my suite uninvited. Don’t pretend you’re above trading on your… assets.”

I opened my mouth to object, but he raised a hand to silence me.

“Think about it overnight,” he said, sliding a key card across the table toward me. “If you decide you’re interested, come to my suite. You know where it is—same room number as before.” He stood, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease, exuding an air of finality. “If not, I understand. No hard feelings.”

Without waiting for my response, he turned and strode toward the main ballroom, leaving me staring at the key card on the table, my heart racing.

I sat frozen, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Had Devon Kane really just proposed that I become his… what? Mistress? Call girl? The suggestion was outrageous, offensive, and wholly inappropriate. And yet, a small, practical voice in the back of my mind began to calculate the implications. One month of my time in exchange for a contract that could save my company and secure the livelihoods of my employees.

Was my pride worth more than their futures?

I glanced down at the key card, its blank surface offering no guidance. Whatever decision I made tonight would alter the course of everything—for my company, for my employees, and for myself. The question loomed large: could I live with either choice?

**THE GEUS Midnight Remedy**
**Chapter 19**