Page 120 of Rescuing Aria
The knowledge should shatter me. Should rewrite my entire sense of self, but strangely, it doesn’t. Whether Marcus’s blood runs in my veins or Wolfe’s makes little difference to who I’ve chosen to become. Nature may provide the raw material, but nurture—and more importantly, choice—shapes the final form.
I close the folder, leaving it on the table. The past doesn’t disappear by ignoring it, but neither does it dictate the future. What matters now is what I build from these fragments of truth, what legacy I choose to create from the ashes of illusion.
Downstairs, the workshop hums with creative energy. Hope looks up as I enter, her face brightening with genuine welcome. The change in her over these past few weeks continues to amaze me—from the terrified girl who helped me escape Wolfe’s compound to this focused young woman developing her artistic voice.
“Aria.” She sets down her tools carefully. “You’re back.”
“I am.” I move closer, examining her work. A clear glass container holds suspended crystals arranged in what appears to be a constellation pattern, waiting for wax to be poured around them. “This is beautiful.”
“Ursa Major.” Her fingers trace the pattern in the air above the glass. “The Great Bear. I found a book about stars in yourlibrary and…” She trails off, suddenly uncertain. “Is it okay that I borrowed it?”
“Of course.” I touch her shoulder gently, careful not to startle. “Everything in the apartment is available to you. Books, especially.”
Relief softens her features. Even after weeks of freedom, she still expects punishment for the smallest transgressions. Wolfe’s conditioning runs deep, as does the trauma of years spent as, essentially, his prisoner.
“I thought—” she hesitates, then continues with growing confidence, “I thought we could do a whole collection. Constellations in crystal. Ursa Major, Orion, Cassiopeia.”
“That’s brilliant.” The idea sparks immediate creative possibilities. “We could market them as ‘Celestial Series’ for the winter collection.”
Hope’s smile blooms fully now, pride in her idea visible in the way her shoulders straighten. “I’ve already started sketching designs for the labels. If that’s okay?”
She passes me a notebook filled with careful drawings—star patterns rendered in gold ink against midnight blue backgrounds. The artistic skill surprises me, another hidden talent emerging now that she has the freedom to explore.
“These are perfect.” I flip through the pages, genuine admiration warming my voice. “You have a real eye for design.”
Color rises in her cheeks at the praise. “Storm helped with some of the astronomy details. Making sure the star positions were accurate.”
Ah. Storm.
Delta-Six, demolitions expert, tactical specialist—and apparently, amateur astronomer.
His visits to the shop have become regular occurrences, ostensibly for “security checks” but increasingly focused on the quiet young woman who works with crystals and starlight.
“That was thoughtful of him.” I keep my tone neutral, not wanting to embarrass her with obvious observations about Storm’s interest. “When did he stop by?”
“This morning.” Her fingers trace the edge of the notebook. “While you were at the… While you were out.”
The funeral remains difficult for her to mention directly. I don’t push for more acknowledgment than she can comfortably give.
“Well, I’m glad Storm could help.” I hand the notebook back, shifting focus from personal to professional. “How many designs do you think we could have ready for the winter collection launch?”
Hope responds eagerly to the change in topic, walking me through her ideas for production techniques, pricing structures, and display options. The business side of creativity interests her as much as the artistic elements—another way she’s finding her place in this new world.
As we talk, something inside me settles. The funeral recedes, Marcus’s shadow diminishes, and what remains is this: creation, connection, purpose. The shop, with its warm light and endless possibilities. Hope, with her emerging confidence and surprising talents. Ember, with her fierce loyalty and grounding presence. Ryn with her quiet magic—somehow making the broken pieces more beautiful than they ever were whole. Not despite the fractures, but because of them.
The family I’ve chosen, not the one thrust upon me by birth or circumstance.
Jon appears in the workshop doorway, security check complete. His expression softens as he takes in the scene—Hope animatedly explaining her constellation concept, my full engagement with her ideas. Normalcy amid chaos. Healing through creation.
“Everything secure?” I ask, though his relaxed posture already answers the question.
“All clear.” He moves into the space, examining Hope’s work with genuine interest. “Star patterns?”
“Constellations.” Hope’s voice carries more confidence when discussing her work than in any other context. “For the winter collection.”
Jon studies the crystal arrangement, recognition lighting his features. “Ursa Major. The Great Bear. You’ve got the positioning exactly right.”
Hope practically glows at the validation. “Storm helped with the astronomical accuracy.”
