Page 126 of Rescuing Aria
No one asks directly about Marcus or Wolfe or the events that played out three months ago. They don’t need to—the subtext hangs in the air, acknowledged but not confronted. The Truth collection speaks for itself, its very existence a statement about my journey from darkness into light.
“Ms. Holbrook.” A woman approaches, press credentials hanging around her neck. Lifestyle section, not investigative reporting. Safe territory. “Would you tell me about your inspiration for the Truth collection? It’s quite a departure from your previous luxury lines.”
I consider my response carefully. The prepared marketing language sits ready on my tongue—something about authenticity in challenging times, about stripping away unnecessary embellishment to reveal essential beauty.
Instead, truth emerges.
“Sometimes life strips away illusions we didn’t know we were maintaining.” I lift one of the candles, allowing light to pass through its clear glass and golden contents. “This collection honors that process—painful but ultimately illuminating. When everything familiar is taken away, what remains is truth. Unadorned, unfiltered, powerful in its simplicity.”
She studies me with new interest, sensing the personal nature of my response. “And the scent profile? It’s quite complex for something meant to represent simplicity.”
“Truth is rarely simple.” I smile slightly. “It has layers, dimensions, and aspects that reveal themselves gradually. The initial sharpness mellows into something grounding and enduring. Like understanding itself.”
The reporter nods, jotting notes with genuine engagement. “And the Celestial collection? The contrast between the two is striking.”
I glance toward Hope, who stands with a small group of customers near her constellation display. Her posture has changed subtly over these months—spine straighter, shoulders no longer hunched protectively, hands gesturing with growing confidence as she describes her creative process.
“That’s Hope’s creation. I think she should tell you about it herself.” I catch Hope’s eye, gesturing for her to come over. The momentary flash of alarm in her expression is quickly replaced by determination. Another small victory in her ongoing journey.
As Hope explains her inspiration to the increasingly fascinated reporter, I step back, allowing her the spotlight she’s earned. Storm materializes nearby, ostensibly checking the back exit, but positions himself perfectly to offer support if Hope needs it.
The careful choreography of it warms something inside me—this protective circle we’ve formed around each other. Not the suffocating control Marcus called “protection,” but genuine support that strengthens rather than diminishes.
“You’ve built something remarkable here.” Jon’s voice comes quietly beside me, his presence a comfort I’ve grown to rely on. “Not just the business. The family.”
Family. The word catches in my chest, weighted with new meaning. Not defined by blood, legal documents, or social expectations. Defined instead by choice, by trust, by showing up when it matters most.
“We built it,” I correct gently, finding his hand with mine. “All of us together.”
His fingers interlace with mine, warm and solid and real. Not the Delta operative in this moment, but simply Jon—the manwho stood beside me through darkness and remains beside me in light.
The evening continues around us—sales transactions, media interviews, casual conversations. I participate as needed, my upbringing guiding me through the expected social interactions, but a part of me remains anchored to an uncomfortable realization.
I’ve lost family—the father I thought I knew, the history I believed was mine, but gained something infinitely more valuable. Something chosen rather than inherited. Something real rather than constructed.
As the event draws to a close, with the last customers drifting out carrying signature bags and press packets, our inner circle remains. Delta team members drop their professional pretense, rolling up their sleeves, stacking boxes, and helping with cleanup despite my half-hearted protests.
Ember and Blaze move through the closing procedures, their private smiles and subtle touches speaking volumes about what’s growing between them. Hope and Storm restock the Celestial candle display for tomorrow’s business hours, their conversation flowing more easily now, quiet laughter punctuating the soft clinks of glass and metal.
She glows in his presence. He softens in hers.
Razor and Ryn work near the back counter, unboxing supplies that mysteriously didn’t get unpacked earlier. They don’t say much, but the air between them feels charged, close, and attentive. Ryn hands him a box cutter, their fingers brushing. Razor doesn’t look away. Neither does she.
Whatever’s beginning there, it’s not casual.
And Jon—he remains beside me, a quiet fortress at my side. His hand brushes the small of my back as I lean into him. This is a moment of completion. A circle drawn and closed. A new beginning shaped by something real.
“Success by any metric.” Jenny approaches with a smile. “Media coverage positive, sales exceeded projections, security maintained without incident.”
“High praise coming from you.” I smile, familiar enough with Jenny’s standards to recognize the compliment for what it is.
“Truth deserves recognition.” Her gaze shifts meaningfully to the candle display. “In all its forms.”
The acknowledgment catches me by surprise. Jenny isn’t given to metaphorical speech or emotional validation. That she recognizes the deeper significance of tonight’s event suggests understanding I hadn’t realized she possessed.
“Thank you,” I say simply.
She nods once, mission accomplished, and moves to assist Mac with final security checks. The team will depart soon, returning to Guardian HQ and whatever missions await them next.
