Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
ARIA
The city lights blur past the window as we drive, streaks of neon and gold melting into the dark. It’s quiet in the car—just the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic sound of tires on pavement. Presley’s hand is in mine.
Somehow, it happened without either of us saying a word. He reached across the console like it was the most natural thing in the world, laced his fingers through mine, and now we’re just... here.
And it feels real. So real, it scares me. I never meant for this to happen. He was supposed to be my rival. A cocky, too-slick-for-his-own-good pain in my ass. Someone I’d roll my eyes at across casino floors, not lean on in the middle of a conspiracy.
But he’s not just sharp. He’s steady. When everything else is unraveling, he’s the one thing that feels like solid ground.
And now he’s holding my hand like he means it. Like we’re not just chasing jewel thieves and avoiding boardroom landmines—like we’re something.
I glance over at him, catching the outline of his jaw in the glow of the streetlights. He looks focused, calm. But I know him now. I see the tightness in his grip on the wheel, the way his thumb brushes over my fingers like he’s grounding himself.
I never thought I’d fall for him.
But I have.
Totally and completely.
And I have no idea what that means.
If anyone finds out, we’re done. Fired. Blacklisted. Two security directors tangled up in a mess of personal and professional lines.
But in this moment, I don’t care.
Because he hasn’t let go of my hand once.
The police station comes into view ahead, its familiar concrete structure looming against the skyline. Presley slows, pulling into the lot with the kind of care that says he’s thinking three moves ahead.
He parks. Kills the engine. Turns to me.
“Do you still trust me?” he asks.
His voice is low. Serious. Like the question isn’t just about this investigation anymore. Like it’s about everything.
I don’t even hesitate.
“Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes. “With my whole heart.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The city keeps breathing outside the car. But in here, it’s just us.
Then we release hands. Open our doors. Step out into the night air and walk over into the station.
The fluorescent lights in the police station buzz faintly overhead as we step up to the counter. The air smells like stale coffee and metal filing cabinets. Presley rests his palm on the desk, polite but firm.
“We’re here for Detective David Cole,” he says.
The officer at the desk nods and disappears through a door. A few moments later, a tall man in a gray shirt appears—friendly smile, easy confidence. Presley’s face lights up.
“Dave,” he says. “Been too long.”
They shake hands like old friends. The kind of handshake that carries years of trust.
“Presley Dane,” David says, chuckling. “Man, I didn’t expect to see you in here. What’s going on?”
Presley glances toward me, and my stomach drops. His expression changes—just slightly—but enough to make the air turn heavy.
“This is my colleague, Aria Taylor,” he says smoothly. “She’s been helping me with the investigation.”
Colleague?
I blink at him, confused. Something’s wrong.
David nods politely. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Taylor.”
Presley keeps his tone even, professional. Too professional.
“David,” he says quietly, “I need your help handling this off the record. Aria’s confessed to taking the weeping jewels we discussed earlier. We need to keep it quiet until we can confirm all the evidence. She doesn’t want this to make the evening news.”
For a heartbeat, the world stops. The words don’t make sense at first—they just hang there, echoing, until they finally hit.
“What?” I whisper.
David looks startled. “Presley—”
But Presley doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at the floor, jaw tight.
“Presley,” I say louder, my voice cracking. “What are you doing?”
I step back. My chest is on fire, breath coming too fast. “You said you needed me to trust you.”
He still won’t look at me.
I feel something shatter inside. “You used me,” I whisper, then louder, “You used me!”
The room goes still. David steps forward, hands raised, but I can barely hear him. My voice breaks, shaking, everything I thought we were spilling out in one breathless rush.
“I believed you, Presley! Every word, every promise—you said we were in this together! I risked everything for you! And you—”
I choke on the rest. The air feels too thin.
Presley finally looks at me then, and for a split second, I see it—something like regret buried behind his eyes. But it’s too late.
Whatever this was—whatever we were—it’s gone.
And as David steps between us, trying to calm things down, all I can think is that the man I trusted most just became a stranger.
Then the sound of metal clicking breaks the air.
For a heartbeat I don’t understand what it is—then I see the glint of steel in David’s hands.
“Wait,” I say, stepping back, “what are you doing?”
His expression is pained, professional. “Ms. Taylor, I’m sorry. Mr. Dane says there’s a recording. Until we clear this up—”
He reaches for my wrists. I go still. My skin goes cold where his hands touch. This can’t be real. It can’t.
“Presley,” I manage, voice trembling. “Tell him. Tell him this isn’t true.”
But Presley just stands there, looking at me with that same unreadable calm I once mistook for strength.
“I have her confession on tape,” he says evenly to David. “We’ll go to the Jade Petal to retrieve it. You’ll hear it yourself.”
My heart lurches. “You’re lying,” I whisper, then louder, “You’re lying! You’re a liar and a cheat! You used me!”
My words echo through the station; people glance up from their desks.
Presley doesn’t flinch. “Let’s go, Dave.”
He turns and walks out, David leads me to a holding cell, and locks the door.David hesitates at the doorway, then glances back. “We’ll sort this out, Ms. Taylor. Just sit tight.” The sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor.
I sink into the metal chair in the corner of the small holding room, the air sharp with disinfectant and old dust. Everything feels distant—the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled voices beyond the wall.
I stare at my hands resting on the table and try to breathe.
I told him I trusted him. I said it with my whole heart.
And now the man I trusted most just walked away, leaving me alone with nothing but the echo of his voice saying he had proof.
I don’t cry. I’ve already done that. Now there’s just the hollow ache that follows when you’ve run out of tears. I keep replaying everything in my head: the drive here, the warmth of his hand in mine, the way he looked at me when he asked if I trusted him.
I said yes. With my whole heart. And now that same heart feels like it’s breaking in slow motion.
I don’t understand any of it. How could I have misread him so badly?
Presley was supposed to be my partner in this—sharp, clever, impossible Presley who made me laugh when things were falling apart.
The one person I thought saw me as more than a rival.
But it was all an act. Every moment, every word, every look across the table—just another move in whatever game he’s been playing. I wrap my arms around myself and press my forehead against the cool metal tabletop. My chest tightens.
How could I be so stupid?
I should have known better. People in this city don’t fall for each other; they use each other. Trust is just another kind of gamble, and I bet everything on the wrong man.
Footsteps pass by the cell door. A voice murmurs, distant, uninterested. I don’t lift my head.
I just sit there in the dim light, trying to breathe past the hurt, trying to figure out how to rebuild from something that feels like it’s already burned to ash. Somewhere deep down, though, under all the anger and disbelief, a small part of me refuses to let go.