Chapter 309: Two Steps Forward, Ten Steps Back

"Because," Julian sighed, leaning his head back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, "the Honorable Judge Harrison has a very predictable Friday night routine. And since he ignored my calls, we have to interrupt it."

Aria wrinkled her nose in disgust. "So we’re crashing his scheduled sneaky link?"

"Precisely," Julian deadpanned.

The steel doors slid open with a soft ding.

The fourth-floor corridor smelled of artificial strawberry perfume, stale cigarette smoke, and bad decisions. The walls were lined in tacky red velvet flocking. Aria kept her arms crossed tightly over her chest, making sure no part of her body accidentally brushed against the walls as she followed Julian down the hall.

Richard walked silently behind them.

Julian marched straight up to Room 412 and banged his fist against the door.

"Harrison!" Julian barked, his voice echoing in the quiet hallway. "Open the door. It’s Cross."

There was a muffled thump from inside the room, followed by the frantic rustling of sheets and a girl’s high-pitched giggle.

A few seconds later, the door cracked open.

Judge Harrison, a balding, sweating man in his late sixties, peeked out. He was wearing a bright red silk robe loosely tied around his waist. When his bloodshot eyes landed on Julian, the remaining color completely drained from his face.

"Cross?!" the judge hissed, glancing nervously up and down the hallway. "What the hell are you doing here?! I’m off the clock!"

Through the crack in the door, Aria caught a glimpse of the room’s interior. Sitting on a vibrating, heart-shaped bed were two girls who looked like they were barely old enough to vote, sipping champagne from plastic cups.

Aria’s stomach violently turned. She averted her gaze, staring at the hideous patterned carpet.

Julian reached into his suit jacket, pulled out the folded bail release form, and shoved it against the judge’s chest along with a sleek silver pen.

"Damien Sinclair needs this signed," Julian ordered, his tone leaving zero room for negotiation. "Right now."

Judge Harrison swallowed hard.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t even ask what the charges were. The judge knew exactly whose payroll funded his lavish weekend excursions. When the Demon King of New York demanded a signature, you signed the paper, or you found yourself permanently removed from the bench and blacklisted from the city entirely.

Sweating profusely, the judge slapped the paper against the doorframe, hastily scribbling his signature across the bottom line.

"Tell Mr. Sinclair I said hello," the judge muttered nervously, handing the document back.

---

Ten minutes later, the black Mercedes pulled up to the curb outside the downtown NYPD precinct.

The atmosphere inside the police station was gritty, chaotic, and bathed in flickering fluorescent lighting. Drunk tank regulars were shouting, phones were ringing off the hook, and exhausted detectives were aggressively typing at their cluttered desks.

Aria sat on a hard, plastic waiting bench, her leg bouncing manically against the scuffed linoleum. Richard stood beside her like a statue, his eyes lazily scanning the room.

Julian had disappeared behind the front desk five minutes ago, handing over the signed bail order to the bewildered desk sergeant.

BZZZT.

The metal door leading to the holding cells buzzed loudly and swung open.

Aria’s breath hitched. She stood up.

Damien walked out, escorted by two police officers who looked more like nervous bellhops.

His golden eyes instantly swept the crowded precinct then they locked onto Aria. A faint, almost imperceptible softening touched the hard lines of his face as he stepped toward her.

"Damien," Aria breathed.

She wanted to run to him. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and bury her face in his chest. But her feet felt like they were glued to the linoleum. The adrenaline crash of the night had finally caught up to her, hitting her nervous system like a freight train.

She was just so exhausted.

Julian stepped up beside Damien, handing him his phone.

"You’re cleared," Julian murmured, adjusting his glasses. "You are free to go. Unless the man wakes up in the ICU and stupidly decides to press charges—which I highly doubt he will. This is over."

Damien didn’t even look at Julian. He just nodded once, slipping his phone into his pocket, his eyes never leaving his wife.

He walked up to Aria.

He gently wrapped his hand around her upper arm. "Let’s go home," Damien murmured softly.

The ride back to the Sinclair Penthouse in the back of the Mercedes was suffocatingly silent.

The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Aria sat on the far side of the leather bench seat, resting her head against the cool glass. She had her arms crossed loosely over her stomach, staring blankly out at the dark streets of Manhattan.

Damien sat beside her, perfectly still.

The physical distance between them in the backseat felt like a canyon. He kept turning his head, his eyes drawn to her illuminated profile in the passing streetlights. He wanted to bridge the gap. He wanted to reach over and pull her flush against his side.

But he could almost feel the wall she had put up.

He forced his hand to remain resting on his own knee.

When the car finally glided into the parking garage of Sinclair Tower, the silence only thickened. They rode the private elevator up to the top floor, the digital numbers ticking upward in a quiet count.

Ding.

Aria stepped out first. She kicked her stilettos off, leaving them carelessly near the console table, and padded barefoot into the living room.

Damien stepped out behind her. He took a deep breath, preparing to finally shatter the silence. He needed to talk to her. He needed to apologize for making her worry, and he needed to hear her voice.

"Aria—" Damien started, his voice low.

"I’m going to shower," Aria interrupted softly.

She didn’t turn around to look at him. Her voice was flat, devoid of any heat or anger.

"I’m exhausted, Damien. I just want to sleep."

She didn’t wait for him to respond.

Aria headed straight up the floating glass staircase to the second floor, making a beeline for the guest bedroom where she had been staying since their argument.

Damien was left standing alone in the center of the foyer.

He stared up at the top of the glass staircase, his jaw clenched tight. The silence of the apartment pressed in on him from all sides. He dragged a hand through his silver hair, his chest tightening with a deep, starving craving for his wife that no amount of wealth or power could ever satisfy.