Page 74 of Detectives in Love

It sounds defiant, I know—like I’m trying to get under his skin. But I honestly don’t have the energy to care.

Xavier’s jaw tightens. His lips twist into an unkind smirk.

“Right. You have plans.”

“That’s not it,” I snap, heat rising in my chest. “You didn’t even apologize. You never do.”

“Apologize for what?” he says, quietly. “For focusing on the case instead of chasing after your ex?”

Something twists in my chest the second the words leave his mouth.

“If you don’t want me to go, just say so!” My voice rises, heat rushing to my face. “Just say you’re jealous—don’t pull this passive-aggressive crap!”

Xavier’s mask slips—just for a flicker—then it’s back. His lip curls.

“Why would I be jealous?” His voice is ice. Then, after a beat: “You’re not my boyfriend. You can do whatever you want. I don’t need you.”

His eyes don’t even look like his anymore—dark, cruel, unrecognizable.

You’re not my boyfriend.

I don’t need you.

It hits like scalding water, humiliation searing down my spine. I spin on my heel and walk off without looking back.

The second I hit the street, my thoughts start to spiral. Anger and disappointment churn through me like acid. My stomach knots. I hate myself for giving him that opening. For thinking I could ever get past that façade.

To hell with it all. The investigation. Xavier. Everything.

Rage throbs at my temples, my heart pounding, a lump clawing its way up my throat.

We’ve fought plenty over the past year and a half—but it’s never felt like this. Never this personal. He’s never tried to hurt me. But just now, he wanted to. I saw it in his eyes—how he knew exactly what to say to make it sting. To humiliate me.

I want to cry, but I won’t. That would be pathetic.

“Mr. Doherty!”

I glance back.

Selena Hast—who’s been on our heels since yesterday—hurries after me, her magenta coat flashing like a damn caution sign.

“Afternoon.” She grins as she catches up.

“Can’t you leave me alone?” I snap, picking up my pace.

“Don’t be like that,” she says, matching my stride. “I come in peace.”

“I don’t care,” I mutter, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

“I overheard your spat with Mr. Ormond. Care to share what that was about?”

“No.” I exhale hard, forcing my temper down. “Please, just go.”

“Let’s talk.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Look, I came alone—call it a gesture of goodwill. Just give me two minutes.”