Page 125 of Rescuing Aria
“Five minutes to doors open.” Jon’s voice carries from the entrance, where he’s completing final security checks. Not because we expect trouble, but because habits formed in crisis don’t simply disappear when danger passes.
The shop hums with pre-launch energy. Our biggest event since reopening after everything that happened at Wolfe’s compound. The official introduction of both new collections—Truth and Celestial—to our most loyal customers and select media representatives.
Three months ago, I could barely imagine this moment. Three months ago, I stood in Wolfe’s dining room learning that everything I thought I knew about my family was a lie. That Marcus, the father I’d both loved and feared, was a monster wearing a businessman’s mask. That Wolfe, the man who kidnapped me, might be my biological father.
Three months of rebuilding. Of healing. Of choosing what to carry forward and what to leave buried alongside Marcus in that pristine cemetery plot.
“Nervous?” Ember appears at my elbow, voice pitched for my ears alone.
“Strangely, no.” I adjust a Truth candle’s position slightly, aligning it perfectly with its neighbors. “This feels right. Complete, somehow.”
She nods, understanding without further explanation. Ember knows about journeys of transformation, about emergingstronger from darkness. Her own path from survivor to successful business owner parallels mine in many ways.
“Delta team is all accounted for.” Ember gestures subtly toward the Guardian operatives positioned throughout the shop. Jenny by the register, Mac near the eastern window, Blaze examining candle displays with what might almost pass for interest. “Storm’s watching the back entrance.”
“With Hope, no doubt.” I don’t bother hiding my smile. The connection between the quiet, stargazing girl and the stoic demolitions expert has grown stronger each week. An unlikely pairing that somehow works perfectly.
“Naturally.” Ember’s grin mirrors mine. “Discussing ‘security protocols’ that somehow always involve constellation patterns.”
But even as we share the moment, two faces are missing.
“No Razor?” I ask.
Ember’s eyes gleam. “He and Ryn volunteered forperimeter sweep.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” I raise a brow.
A knowing shrug. “Longer sweeps lately. Lot of ‘detours.’”
Something in my chest warms. These Guardian men—trained to be detached, deadly, unshakable—seem to fall the hardest when they finally let themselves feel. Storm with Hope. Razor with Ryn. Men of steel discovering what it means to be tethered.
Anchored.
Our shared amusement fades as Jon approaches, expression professionally neutral but eyes carrying a warmth reserved for me alone.
“Everything secure?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Jon wouldn’t be here, focused on me rather than perimeters, if any concerns remained.
“All clear.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “You ready for this?”
The question carries layers of meaning beyond tonight’s event. Ready for public attention. Ready for the questions that continue to follow Marcus’s death and the gradual revelations about his business dealings. Ready to stand as myself, not as Marcus Holbrook’s daughter.
“More than ready.” I meet his gaze steadily, letting him see the certainty I feel. “It’s time.”
He nods, understanding without further explanation. That’s become our pattern—communication that needs fewer words as our connection deepens. A look, a touch, a shared breath often says more than elaborate explanations.
“Then let’s open the doors.” His fingers graze mine—brief, but enough to ground me, steady me. Electric in the quiet way only he can be. “Your public awaits.”
The first wave trickles in. Then more. Curious customers, local press, even a few bloggers with oversized cameras and ring lights they pretend not to notice. The air hums with energy—voices overlapping, the soft clink of candle lids being lifted and replaced, murmurs of approval as scents are sampled.
I slip into motion, answering questions, guiding people through the displays, and explaining the story behind each collection. Not reciting—sharing. This isn’t about sales or performance. It’s about connection.
The woman who lingers over the lavender and moss blend reminds me of my mother. The teenager who gravitates toward the citrus-basil scent looks like she just left a ballet class.
Every interaction roots me deeper in the moment.
Jon stays close without hovering, his presence a steady reassurance. Ember’s laugh rings out from the back corner, Hope’s voice soft and certain as she explains wick types to areporter. This isn’t just a store—it’s the beginning of something new.
Something real.
