Page 16 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
The opal pendant hadn't left her mind. When she mentioned to her sister that she was thinking of giving it back, Lule had gone still.
"You're not giving it back," she said. "Are you out of your mind?"
"She said her husband gave it to her," Aria began.
"And she gave it to you. That means you wear it, honour it. You don't return it like it's a bloody library book."
Aria smiled faintly. "I just...don't want to be presumptuous."
"You're not. You're awesome, and she saw it. Now you need to."
Chapter 12
Aria
By Saturday evening, there was an undercurrent of excitement running beneath Aria's skin. It buzzed in her fingertips, curled around her toes, and fluttered at the base of her throat like a low hum she couldn't quite suppress.
Lule had paid for a salon appointment that afternoon. "My contribution to Operation Cinderella." Aria had spent the day getting buffed, shaped, and mildly scalded. Her brows were neater, her legs smooth, her hair freshly trimmed and soft. She had even painted her nails a dusky rose that Lule approved with an exaggerated nod.
Now, the opal pendant lay waiting on the dresser beside the black vintage dress, and the svelte shoes sat carefully positioned at the foot of the bed. She kept glancing at them, half in disbelief.
She'd never been to a formal dinner before. Certainly not one where she was expected to make conversation with people who wore cufflinks and knew wine by the region.
And Crispin still hadn't called.
No texts. No emojis.
Just silence.
Yesterday, she'd seen new photos of him in the tabloids. He was at a gallery opening, arm-in-arm with Helga in her usual flawless designer attire, her hand curled into his arm like it belonged there.
She should've been numb by now, but instead, memories pressed in like mist against glass, soft-edged but impossible to ignore.
The first time they'd slept together hadn't been planned. Not exactly.
They'd been fencing for months-years, if she was honest. A push and pull, a dance of glances and retreats. He would spend hours with her and then vanish. Reappear. Disappear again.
On her birthday, two years into their strange rhythm, he'd surprised her with a discreet dinner at a seafood place that smelled of lemon and dark wine. She hadn't expected him to remember; she hadn't expected the Cartier box, either.
"I told you,” she had murmured, her voice low. "That's not what this is all about."
"We're friends," he had said simply. "And you need to let me buy you at least one thing a year. Just one, no arguing."
She had argued, of course. She suggested a book. A candle. A scarf.
He looked almost wounded. "Let me do this for you."
Eventually, she accepted. And after dinner, they walked back through the quiet streets, his coat slung over her shoulders, the moon lighting their path like a blessing.
When they reached her door, he didn't hesitate.
"Invite me in," he said, his voice rough. "We both know we want it."
She hesitated for a few long seconds before she opened the door.
He kicked it shut behind them and pressed her up against it with a force that left her breathless, his tongue finding hers, tasting her like he'd been starved.
His hands ran along her body-curious, unhurried, reverent. Her shirt was unbuttoned, her faded cotton bra tugged up. He paused to look at her in the soft light, then bent to take her pale brown nipple in his mouth, sucking until she cried out.
