Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
ARIA
The Brandt estate looks like it was designed by someone who walked into the Bellagio and said, “Yes, but make it bigger.”
It’s all marble and fountains and rose gardens that look too perfect to be real. Even the driveway sparkles. I don’t know how that’s possible, but I hate it.
Presley and I pass through the massive wrought-iron gates after a silent nod from the security guard in the glass booth. The guy barely glances up—probably used to the parade of lawyers, jewelers, and stylists who cycle through this place like clockwork.
As we approach the front door, I catch my own reflection in the polished glass of a Greco-Roman statue. My blouse is tucked, my heels are silent on the stone, and my face is all business. But inside, my nerves are twisted tight.
We stop at the foot of the oversized front door—double panels, ten feet tall, black lacquered wood with gold lion knockers. Of course.
“This place gives me hives,” I mutter, adjusting the strap on my bag.
“You sure it’s the house?” Presley murmurs, standing too close.
Before I can tell him to step back, I feel it—his hand brushes over the back of my skirt, then gives a quick pinch.
My eyes widen. “Did you just—?”
He winks. Actually winks.
I spin toward him, jaw tight, voice low and furious. “Are you out of your mind?”
His smile is completely unapologetic. “Just making sure you’re awake.”
I glare at him, trying to ignore the heat climbing into my cheeks. “If our bosses find out what happened between us—anything—we’re both done. Fired. Blacklisted. I am not letting the thing ruin my career.”
“Pretty sure that was more than a thing.”
“Presley.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received. No more distractions.”
I cross my arms, still fuming. “Keep your hands—and your mouth—to yourself.”
He’s just about to open his smug mouth again, probably with some clever remark that will make me want to punch him and kiss him in the same breath—
But that’s when the door opens.
Slowly. Silently. Like the reveal of a stage show. And there she is. Talia Brandt. Perfect in silk and diamonds at 10 a.m., her lips painted the color of blood oranges, her cheekbones sculpted by either God or a very expensive surgeon. Her gaze sweeps over both of us like she’s selecting wine.
“Oh,” she says in a voice that could freeze champagne. “I was told security was sending someone. I didn’t realize I’d be entertaining two.”
She smiles faintly. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
She leads us through her mansion like she’s walking a red carpet. Every step echoes on polished marble floors. The walls are draped in velvet and hung with oil paintings that are either priceless or tacky—I can’t tell anymore.
We pass a crystal chandelier that looks like it could flatten a sedan and stop in what she calls the “morning parlor,” which is somehow larger than my entire apartment.
She gestures to the white velvet chairs like we’re here for tea. “Please. Sit.”
Presley flops into the chair like he owns the place. I stay standing.
“Mrs. Brandt,” I begin, tone polite but firm, “we’re reviewing security footage from the night of the transfer between the Citadel and Jade Petal exhibits, and we noticed you were seen wearing the sapphire necklace. One of the Weeping Jewels.”
Her painted lips curve. “Yes. I wore it to a gallery opening that evening. It photographed beautifully.”
“Was that the real piece?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “Of course not. I was explicitly told I couldn’t wear the real jewels. I had a replica made for promotional purposes. I was helping your little exhibit, darling.”
My jaw tightens at the condescension. “Just to clarify—you’re saying the necklace you were wearing was a fake?”
She lifts a brow. “Yes, and I have the receipts to prove it. I’m not some fool running around Las Vegas in cursed antiques. My insurance company would have a coronary.”
Beside me, Presley shifts forward slightly. I can feel his attention on me—can practically hear whatever sarcastic comment is brewing behind his teeth. But he stays quiet. For once.
Talia crosses her legs with the elegance of a pageant queen. “Now,” she says sweetly, “are you accusing me of stealing your exhibit, or just questioning my fashion choices?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything,” I say, evenly.
“We’re following up on all viable leads,” Presley adds, his voice low, measured. “Your name just happens to be one of them.”
She laughs—light, brittle, theatrical. “Well, I’m flattered. But I’ve been married to Dalton Brandt for fifteen years. If anything’s cursed, it’s that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting.
Talia reaches for a gilded compact on the side table and flips it open. “I’ve been more than cooperative. You’ve got your answer. I’ve got a lunch appointment. And my patience is thinning.” She powders her nose with deliberate strokes, eyes flicking between the two of us in the mirror.
“You have everything you need,” she says, snapping the compact closed with a crisp click. “Now go.”
As if on cue, a pair of stone-faced security guards appear in the doorway. Presley sighs quietly. “Charming as always.”
I rise from the chair, smoothing the front of my blouse. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Brandt.”
She doesn’t respond. Just turns her face back toward the mirror, adjusting a diamond earring like we were never here. We’re led out wordlessly, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the obscenely plush carpet. Outside, the sun hits my face, but all I feel is heat boiling under my skin.
“She’s hiding something,” I mutter as we approach the gate.
“Yeah,” Presley says, glancing back at the house. “But the question is whether it’s about the jewels… or just her entire life.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy replaying the look in Talia’s eyes.
It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t guilt. It was control.
We’re only five minutes into the drive back when I turn to Presley and say, “You caught it, right?”
He glances at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Caught what?”
“Talia’s compact,” I say, shifting in my seat. “She was using Lanc?me.”
He furrows his brow. “Okay… and?”
I blink at him. “Seriously? You didn’t find that weird?”
He shrugs one shoulder, casual as ever. “Aria, I’m flattered you think I know my way around powder brands, but unless it comes in a security-safe container or smells like gun oil, it’s probably not on my radar.”
I sigh dramatically and turn toward the window. “Unbelievable. You notice a suspicious shoe tread in a two-year-old security video, but you don’t clock the most obvious detail of the day.”
“Enlighten me, Sherlock.”
I look back at him, my voice clipped but firm.
“Talia Brandt has been pushing her own luxury makeup line for the last two years. She’s got product displays in every boutique lobby from the Citadel to the Bellagio.
Billboards, social media campaigns, influencers—hell, there was even a tie-in with that awful magician from the Mirage.
She’s obsessed with promoting it. Always swore she only wore her brand. ”
Presley’s face shifts—finally catching up. “So if she’s powdering her nose with Lanc?me, that means…”
“She’s lying about something,” I say. “And not even trying that hard to cover it up.”
He leans back in his seat, arms crossed loosely, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “Could be she grabbed the wrong compact. Could be she’s trying to distance herself from her own brand while something shady’s going down.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s suspicious,” he says, nodding slowly, “but it still doesn’t tell us what happened to the jewels.”
“No,” I admit, “but it tells us something’s off. Her story’s too clean. Too rehearsed. That whole ‘replica’ thing felt planted, like she knew we’d be asking about it.”
Presley drums his fingers on the center console. “So, we go back to the office?”
I nod. “My office. Citadel HQ. I want to pull every security angle from the loading dock to the elevator bay from the night she claims she wore that replica.”
“Fine by me,” he says. Then adds, with a smirk, “Your office has better coffee anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “You just want another excuse to sit in my chair.”
“You make it look good,” he says.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Flattery won’t save you when I find out what you missed in those tapes.”
He grins. “Then let’s go find out.”
As we merge back onto the Strip, the golden towers of the Citadel come into view. They shine like they’ve got nothing to hide.
But I know better.
Something about Talia’s performance wasn’t just off—it was deliberate.
And I plan on tearing it apart, frame by frame.