Page 127 of Rescuing Aria
“Home?” Jon asks quietly, once the final display is secured and the last light dimmed—except for the Truth candle still flickering on the counter. Its steady flame casts a soft glow across the space, scent curling through the air like a benediction.
That word—home—doesn’t sting anymore.
It’s not the penthouse, all cold marble and curated perfection, haunted by Marcus’s shadow no matter how many times I rearranged the furniture. It’s not even the apartment above the shop, where I found refuge in the middle of chaos, where grief and survival once lived side by side.
That apartment now belongs to someone else.
Ryn moved in first—quietly, without fuss—after Ember and I offered it. A place to land after so much turbulence. Hope followed soon after, her new possessions carried up the stairs with the help of Storm and his steady hands. They make it feel lived-in now, warm and real. There’s laughter through thefloorboards some nights, soft music, and the low hum of life returning to two women who deserve peace.
Jon and I found somewhere else. Somewhere new.
A renovated loft perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the ocean, with floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with light. Exposed brick, wide-plank floors, and open rooms that breathe instead of closing in. No ghosts. No legacies. No past pressing in from the corners. Just light and air, and the quiet presence of the man who stood beside me when the world split open.
We picked out the candle shelves together. He insisted on a giant couch I wasn’t sure about until I fell asleep in his arms on it the first night.
“Yeah,” I say softly, turning to him. “Let’s go home.”
He threads his fingers through mine as we step into the cooling night. Behind us, the Truth candle burns steadily. Ahead of us, something new waits—ours to build, room by room, breath by breath.
“Home,” I confirm, extinguishing the display candle carefully with a unique candle snuffer.
Outside, spring air carries the promise of renewal. It has been three months since Marcus’s death. Three months of rebuilding, of reclaiming, of choosing a path forward. The media’s interest faded as newer scandals captured the public’s attention. Guardian HRS’s investigation continues, but quietly in the background.
Marcus’s empire will be dismantled piece by piece. His legitimate businesses will be restructured under new leadership, while the criminal enterprises will be exposed and shuttered. Blood money transformed into foundation funding for organizations supporting trafficking victims and orphaned children.
Not redemption—some sins can’t be redeemed—but redirection. Using what Marcus built for purposes that would infuriate him. Finding purpose in the wreckage of illusion.
Jon drives us home, his hand warm over mine on the console. We don’t speak much—don’t need to. The silence between us isn’t empty. It’s full of everything we’ve already said, everything we’ve come to understand without words.
At home, the night settles around us like a blanket. Familiar motions unfold without thinking—shoes off by the door, lights dimmed low, the soft beep of the security system arming. The scent of bergamot and cedar lingers in the air, a quiet reminder of the life we’ve built here. His toothbrush rests beside mine. His jacket hangs beside mine. Two lives slowly stitched into one.
We move around each other peacefully, no sharp edges, just the rhythm we’ve found. The hum of the kettle. The whisper of cotton against skin. A soft laugh when we both reach for the same towel.
“I have something for you,” Jon says, breaking the stillness with that low, steady voice I’ll never stop leaning into. He crosses the room and pulls a small package from his nightstand drawer—wrapped in plain brown paper, folded with care.
His eyes meet mine, and there’s something tender in them. Hopeful. Steady.
“You’ve carried enough,” he says. “This… It’s just something to remind you what you deserve to carry.”
“What’s this?” I accept it, weighing the solid object in my palm.
“Open it.”
Inside the paper lies a lighter. Not ornate or expensive, but clearly chosen with care. Silver metal engraved with a simple flame pattern. Practical. Functional. Beautiful in its purpose rather than decoration.
“For Truth,” he explains, watching my reaction carefully. “For when you need light.”
The gift’s significance settles deep inside me. Not flowers or jewelry or conventional tokens. Something that creates flame, that transforms darkness to light, that kindles truth when shadows threaten.
Something perfectly, uniquely suited to who I am now.
“Thank you.” I trace the engraved pattern with my fingertip, emotion thickening my voice. “It’s perfect.”
He smiles, the expression reaching his eyes in a way that still makes my heart flutter and skip beats. He’s not the professional operative in this moment, but simply Jon—the man who sees me clearly, who chooses me daily, who loves me without condition or expectation.
Later, curled against him in the darkness, I think about the journey that brought us here. The first kidnapping that introduced us. The second that revealed uncomfortable truths.
“What are you thinking about?” Jon’s voice comes quietly in the darkness, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along my spine.
