Page 1 of Rescuing Aria
ONE
Aria
I usedto believe the worst thing that could happen was being taken. It turns out, surviving it is harder. Surviving means carrying the silence. The nightmares. The lies you tell yourself just to keep breathing.
Except you don’t forget. You just get better at hiding it. You smile prettier. Wear designer jeans. Rebrand the trauma as strength. Wrap the scars in gold and call it kintsugi.
Now I sell hope in glass jars. Dreams that smell like cinnamon and safety. I tell myself this candle shop is healing. That I belong here, where it smells like light, not the cellar where they broke us. And maybe if I burn enough wicks, I’ll believe it. They broke us in the dark, but now we’re building light.
And I’m pretending I’m not still shattered.
Ember’s on her third pass reorganizing a display of crystal vessels, fingers trembling like they remember too. The last time she touched fire, it nearly killed her. Now she bottles it in glass and calls it hope.
“If you reorganize that display again, I’m calling Blaze.” I’m unable to keep the amusement out of my voice as she adjuststhe same arrangement of crystal vessels for what has to be the twentieth time this morning.
Despite the ungodly hour, I’ve made an effort with my appearance—designer jeans and our company shirt, which I’ve modified to look more runway-worthy than retail. The familiar ritual of putting myself together helps calm my nerves.
“Aria, I’m fine,” Ember insists, though her hands shake as the crystal vessels clink together. “Just—making sure everything’s perfect.”
“Everything’s already perfect.” I cross the space, my heels clicking against the reclaimed hardwood floors. “Including the west wall display, which you’ve obsessed over for three days straight.”
I catch her restless hands in mine, feeling the tremor of anxiety beneath her skin. Her fingers find the small burn scar on her collarbone—an old tell I’ve learned to recognize.
“What if—” she starts.
“No what-ifs,” I interrupt gently. “We’ve planned for everything. Now breathe before you work yourself into a panic attack.”
The workshop door creaks open, and Ryn slips through. Six months of regular meals have softened the sharp angles of her face, but her eyes still hold shadows. She stands taller now—another survivor refusing to break.
“The first batch is ready for inspection.” Her voice carries that careful deliberation of someone who went too long without speaking. “The new rose quartz vessels worked perfectly.”
I follow as she leads us into the workshop, watching Ember’s face light up with pride. The space is incredible—three professional pouring stations gleaming under specialty lighting, walls lined with ingredients that would make any artisan weep with envy.
“Look.” Ryn lifts one of her creations, and I gasp. Rose quartz vessels hold swirls of pale pink and gold wax, tiny crystals suspended like constellations. “I tried that new technique with the suspended minerals.”
“These are extraordinary,” Ember breathes, and I nod in agreement. “There’s real artistry here.” She hugs Ryn, who immediately flinches, but then relaxes, leaning into Ember’s touch.
We’ve all been traumatized. Ryn, perhaps more than Ember or myself.
The front bell chimes, and my hands fly to my hair, smoothing strands that are already perfectly in place.
“Three guesses who that is,” Ryn mutters, a rare smile tugging at her lips.
“Anyone alive in here? Brought coffee and those almond croissants Aria likes.” Jon’s voice carries from the retail floor, deep and warm like coffee and promises. My heart does something ridiculous in my chest. He remembered. Of course, he remembered—Jon notices everything.
“I should, um—go help. With the coffee. Because… Reasons,” I stammer, already moving toward the front.
“Subtle,” Ryn calls after me, her smile widening.
I practically float to the retail floor, then try to compose myself when I see him. Jon stands near the entrance, still carrying himself with the same military bearing, despite being in civilian clothes. He sets out breakfast with careful attention to detail—pastries arranged just so, coffee cups positioned just right.
His gaze finds mine immediately, and something electric passes between us. I catch him looking when he thinks I’m not paying attention, his gaze lingering on my face, my hair, and the way I move through the space. When our eyes meet, my stomach does backflips.
“You didn’t have to bring breakfast.” Though I’m already gravitating toward the coffee like it’s calling my name.
“I wanted to.” Simple words, but the way he says them makes heat pool in my belly.
The front door chimes again. This time, it’s Charlie and Brett, carrying more breakfast and looking relaxed together. Jon’s shoulders tense slightly—the only visible sign of discomfort. The dissolution of their three-way relationship still echoes in moments like this, wounds that are healing but not completely healed.
