Page 19 of Rescuing Aria
“The rose quartz vessels work particularly well with our lavender blend.” Ryn’s voice carries steady confidence as she lifts one of the candles to catch the morning light. Gone is the traumatized girl we rescued from Damien Wolfe’s basement six months ago, who barely spoke above a whisper. “The crystal amplifies the calming properties.”
The customer—a woman wearing what I recognize as last season’s Burberry coat—nods thoughtfully. Her manicured fingers trace the vessel’s smooth surface.
“I’ll take three. And could you put me on the waiting list for the custom kintsugi pieces?”
“Of course.” Ryn’s smile could power the entire shop. She pulls out our leather-bound appointment book, pages thick with orders. “We’re booking about six weeks out for custom work.”
Six weeks. The waitlist makes my business school brain practically sing. When Ember and I started this venture with her hand-poured candles and my investment capital, we never dared dream people would wait that long for our work.
“Aria!” Ember’s voice carries from the back office, tinged with excitement. “You need to see these numbers.”
I weave through the morning customers, past the display of bath bombs that’ve become surprisingly popular, toward the converted storage room that serves as our office. Ember sits surrounded by papers, her laptop open, a grin spreading across her face that transforms her entire being.
“Look at this.” She turns the screen toward me, fingers dancing across the trackpad to highlight specific figures. “We’re up forty percent from last month. The Instagram feature in Architectural Digest drove serious traffic, and the waiting list for custom pieces is?—”
“Overwhelming.” I settle into the chair across from her, the worn leather creaking beneath me. “Ryn just told someone six weeks for kintsugi work.”
“That’s good overwhelming though.” Ember’s eyes sparkle with an enthusiasm I’ve come to cherish, the kind that lights her from within when she talks about her work. “We’re getting inquiries about wholesale accounts. High-end boutiques in Napa, that place in Carmel I told you about, even a few shops in New York.”
My Stanford business degree kicks in automatically, calculations and projections dancing through my mind like familiar dance partners.
“That’s—significant expansion potential.”
“It’s a lot.” Ember’s fingers worry at the edge of a spreadsheet, a familiar note of caution creeping into her voice. Unlike me, she wasn’t raised to think in terms of market share and growth trajectories. Everything about business is new to her, but she’s wicked smart. Incredible even. She has a true gift for her art as well as a mind for business. Nothing scares Ember. She’s willing to tackle the whole damn world if she needs to.
“It’s amazing.” I lean forward, reaching across the small space between our desks to touch her hand. “This is what success looks like, Em. Your vision, your artistry—people are recognizing it. They want to be part of what you’ve built.”
“What we’ve built.” Ember is quick to correct me. The phrase sits comfortably between us now, a partnership that’s grown into something deeper than business. Friendship forged in crisis and tempered by trust—something my elite social circle never provided.
“I know. It’s just…” She gestures vaguely toward the shop beyond the office door, where the soft jazz mingles with quiet conversation. “I can barely keep up with the custom orders we have. Ryn’s training two new girls, but they’re still learning. And if we start wholesaling?—”
“We maintain our quality.” My voice carries the firmness that comes from absolute conviction. “That’s non-negotiable. But there are ways to grow smart, Em. Scale without losing what makes us special.”
The bell chimes again, and through the doorway, familiar figures enter. Jenny and Jon.
Jon’s strong arms circle my waist from behind, pulling me against a solid chest that feels like home. His lips find the sensitive spot just below my ear, his breath warm against my skin as he presses a soft kiss to my throat. Electric current shoots straight through me, pooling heat between my thighs and making my knees weak.
“Missed you.” His voice rumbles against my neck, low and intimate.
I melt back against him, tilting my head to give him better access. My arms cover his, fingers interlacing as he holds me tighter. When I turn my head, he captures my lips in a kiss that tastes like promise and possibility. Jon’s body anchors me—solid, hard, intoxicating in ways that still surprise me.
From across the office, Ember’s knowing smile tells me she’s witnessed every second of my complete dissolution. Heat climbs my neck, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when Jon’s thumb traces circles on my wrist, not when his presence fills every empty space inside me.
It’s been a month since Charlie and Brett stepped away from Guardian HRS. A month of watching Delta team adapt and find their new rhythm.
“Jenny’s becoming quite the regular.” I lean back into Jon’s embrace, my voice casual despite the way his thumb stroking my wrist makes concentration difficult. “I think she’s buying candles for half the Guardian HRS facility.”
“She says the lavender ones help the new recruits sleep better after night training.” Ember watches as Jenny examines our newest display.
The office phone rings, sharp and demanding. The caller ID makes my entire demeanor shift automatically. My shoulders straighten, my smile becomes more polished, and the professional mask I’ve worn for twenty-plus years slides into place like armor. Jon’s arms tighten around me briefly before he releases me, stepping back to give me space.
“Hi, Dad.” My voice takes on the tone I use exclusively for Marcus Holbrook—dutiful daughter, successful businesswoman, everything perfectly controlled. The words taste different in my mouth when I speak to him, measured andcareful. “Yes, the shop is doing wonderfully. I’m here right now going over the quarterly numbers…”
I deliberately emphasize quarterly numbers, translating our three-month success into the corporate language Dad understands. Behind me, Ember suppresses a knowing smile, her lips twitching as she pretends to focus on her laptop. Jon moves to lean against the doorframe, his presence steady and reassuring even as I navigate the familiar minefield of family expectations.
“Of course I’d love to show you around.” Something tightens in my stomach, a familiar knot of anticipation and dread. “When were you thinking? This afternoon? That’s perfect. I’ll see you then.”
I hang up and turn to face Jon, whose expression has already shifted to understanding.
