36. DETAINED
ariella
Announcements bleed into each other overhead.
Footsteps drag across polished floors, the distant whine of engines vibrating through glass and steel.
The Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport should feel ordinary.
It doesn’t. There’s a pressure sitting just beneath my skin. It’s subtle but persistent, like the ghost of a touch pressing against the back of my neck.
I’m being watched.
My gaze drifts across the departure hall as if I’m simply another passenger killing time. People blur into motion—families clustered too close, businessmen glued to their phones, a child crying somewhere to my left.
Everything is too normal not to be suspicious.
Adrian’s voice lingers in the back of my mind, steady and firm. “Stay alert and inform me if anything feels suspicious.”
He should know better than to ask that of me.
I step forward when boarding is called and slip into the line smoothly. My pulse remains even, but the pressure doesn’t leave.
Something is going to happen. And the worst part is, I can’t predict what.
I reach the checkpoint.
“Passport,” the officer doesn’t look up when his expectant hand extends.
I place it in his palm.
His eyes scan over my passport.
In that one sweep, I watch his brows scrunch just barely.
He reaches for his line phone. As soon as the receiver connects, he murmurs something under his breath. His eyes flicker toward me between words, not lingering long enough to be obvious, but enough to confirm.
My spine straightens, almost instinctively, every nerve sharpening to a fine edge. Should I run?
He sets the phone down. Then, finally, looks up at me.
Something inside me stills completely under the weight of that look.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step aside,” he says too politely.
“Is there an issue?”
“Yes.”
I wait for a beat in vain for him to elaborate. Instead, he hands my passport back and motions for me to stand aside.
Behind me, irritation begins rippling through the line of strangers who don’t yet realize they’re standing too close to something dangerous.
I tilt my head slightly, studying him. Then I move aside.
The elderly woman behind me mutters something under her breath as she steps forward, her shoulder brushing mine in mild annoyance.
The world slips back into its usual rhythm within seconds—voices rising again, footsteps resuming their steady cadence, life continuing.
Only mine stops on track.
Two more officers—one male, one female—step into my peripheral vision.
My gaze flickers between them to catalogue—posture, stance, the slight bulge beneath jackets that speaks of concealed weapons. They’re not airport security.
They stop directly in front of me, close enough to block, far enough to avoid a scene yet. “Ariella Keinston?”
I feel the shift behind me, the weight of a few curious eyes pressing into my back.
“Yes.”
“You’ll need to come with us.”
My heart rate spikes, but my expression doesn’t betray it. “Excuse me?”
The female officer reaches for my arm, a handcuff already dangling in her grip.
I step back instantly. “What exactly is this about?” I press, firmer this time, the softness gone. “You don’t get to pull me aside without giving me a solid reason.”
My mind is already moving, cutting through possibilities, only to come up with nothing.
“You’re under arrest as the prime suspect for a double homicide case dating back four years,” the male officer says firmly.
The words shoot like a bullet through my chest. There shouldn’t be any trace.
“What the fuck?”
It takes me a second to realize I’ve reacted aloud.
Heads turn. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. A few people stop where they stand, staring at me as they’ve just caught a glimpse of a psychopath on the loose.
Parents pull their children closer, fingers tightening too hard around their small arms as they steer them away, their eyes never leaving me.
The female officer reaches for me again. “Ma’am—”
I shift, trying to slip past her grip, but she’s trained.
Her hand catches my arm, fingers locking in with practiced precision. For a second, resistance coils tight in my muscles, ready to snap.
Then I let it go.
I exhale slowly, forcing my body back into stillness, allowing her to cuff me and guide me forward.
Her grip doesn’t loosen—if anything, fingers press hard enough into my skin to leave a dull, throbbing ache. Thankfully, it’s not my left arm.
The cuffs click into place.
The male officer stays close on my other side, just within reach, close enough to intercept, to restrain if needed.
The space around us shifts while we walk ahead—people parting without being told, instinctively creating distance.
Eyes follow. Whispers begin to spread, crawling over my skin like an unwelcome bug.
I don’t look at them. My focus stays locked forward—my mind is calculating the distance from the exit points and timing.
Three steps to the left—crowd density thickens, too many bodies to push through.
Seven ahead—the main exit.
Two behind me. One at my side.
No clear break without escalation.
My eyes close briefly in surrender, shutting out the chaos, the weight of stares, the tightening grip on my arm.
I can’t get out of this mess.
The automatic doors slide open as we approach. A rush of cold air greets us on the other side. The noise of the terminal drowns out the second the door shuts behind us.
The transition is abrupt, jarring after the controlled environment inside.
A police car waits just beyond the curb.
They don’t slow down as they guide me toward it. The female officer’s grip shifts slightly, repositioning, more secure now as if she expects me to bolt.
I won’t.
I’m too sober from the fear that my family will know about how seriously I fucked up. They will know about the past that should’ve stayed between Asher and me.
The back door is already open.
“Get in,” the male officer says.
I lower myself into the seat. The interior smells faintly of leather and something sterile.
The door shuts beside me with a solid, final sound.
They follow in right away—the male officer sliding into the driver’s seat, the female taking the back seat beside me, her body angled just enough to keep me in her peripheral vision at all times.
He starts the engine, one hand on the wheel, his gaze flickering up to the rearview mirror every few seconds.
They’re watching me for any signs of resistance. Or maybe just an imperceptible crack in my composure.
I give them neither.
I lean back against the seat, forcing my shoulders to loosen and my breathing to even out. My cuffed hands rest on my lap, but my pulse refuses to settle completely.
That’s when it falls into place.
This isn’t a mistake.
They didn’t stumble onto me by accident. They didn’t dig through old records by chance, didn’t piece together fragments of a past that was meant to stay buried.
This is planned specifically for me.
Something cold and electric slides down my spine, settling low in my stomach.
If someone went through this much effort—if they reached into Keinston’s sealed history, intercepted me this cleanly right after I found out about Triarch Dominion—then this isn’t law enforcement acting on its own.
My lips part slightly, a quiet breath slipping out as the realization settles in.
It has to be them—the Triarch Dominion.