Page 30 of Rescuing Aria
“Hi, Jon.” I smile as Aria’s voice fills my ear, bright with stories about her day and questions about mine.
New beginnings all around.
SEVEN
Aria
The morning continuesits familiar rhythm. Customers drift in and out, drawn by word of mouth and the kind of organic buzz that money can’t buy. Ryn handles the newcomers with growing confidence while Ember works on custom orders in the workshop; her hands move with grace as she layers scents and pours wax.
Ryn draws my attention more closely today, the transformation striking in its completeness. Six months ago, we found her in that basement—a small, fierce girl with haunted eyes and a defiant spirit that refused to break. Damien Wolfe had kept her there, along with others, intending to shatter her. Instead, she became part of our makeshift family, discovering an artistic talent that rivals Ember’s own.
The kintsugi technique has become her signature, taking broken vessels and filling the cracks with gold, making them more beautiful for having been damaged. The symbolism strikes everyone who enters our shop; the message is impossible to miss.
Broken things made beautiful.
Scars turned to art.
Stories of survival written in gold.
I’m rearranging a display of our newest scent collection when voices carry from the front of the shop. Dad’s arrival, fifteen minutes early, announced by his commanding presence that seems to fill any space he enters.
“Dad. You made good time.” I move toward him, automatically adjusting my posture to match his professional bearing, feeling my spine straighten and my expression shift.
“Traffic was lighter than expected.” Marcus Holbrook’s voice carries the kind of authority that expects attention. Not loud, but commanding in a way that draws every eye in the room. “I wanted to see this phenomenon my daughter created.”
My daughter created. Not my daughter and her partner. The distinction lands like a small stone in still water, creating ripples I try to ignore but can’t quite manage.
Dad stands in the center of our retail space, taking in the displays with the eye of someone accustomed to evaluating investments. He’s impeccably dressed as always: a tailored Tom Ford suit, Italian leather shoes polished to mirror brightness, every detail perfect. The kind of man who’s never questioned his place in the world because the world has always accommodated him.
“The foot traffic is impressive.” His gaze sweeps the space methodically, cataloging everything from customer behavior to product placement. “And the price points… Well above what I expected for candles.”
“They’re not just candles, Dad.” I step closer, gesturing toward our displays with practiced pride. “They’re artisanal pieces. Each one is hand-poured, custom-scented. People are buying the story as much as the product.”
“Smart positioning.” He nods approvingly, the motion carrying decades of business experience. “Taking a commodityitem and creating perceived value through narrative marketing. Very clever.”
Narrative marketing. As if our stories of survival and healing are merely clever copy, rather than lived experiences. I resist the urge to correct him, to explain that there’s nothing “perceived” about the value we’ve created. The words stick in my throat, held back by years of conditioning.
Dad’s gaze sweeps the shop again, lingering on details—the customer flow patterns, the inventory levels, the way Ryn interacts with browsers. His assessment operates like a scanner, thorough and completely clinical.
“The staff seems well-trained.” He watches Ryn complete another sale with growing confidence. “Though I imagine it’s challenging to maintain quality control with artisanal production. Have you considered standardizing the process? Creating reproducible formulas?”
“That would defeat the purpose.” I choose my words carefully, feeling Ember’s presence as she emerges from the workshop, her hands still dusted with gold leaf. “The custom nature is what makes them special.”
“Special doesn’t scale.” Dad’s response carries the matter-of-fact tone of someone stating an immutable law of physics. “At some point, you’ll need to choose between boutique charm and real growth. The question is whether you want this to remain a hobby business or become something significant.”
Hobby business. Ember flinches slightly at the words, a micro-expression that ignites something protective in my chest. Three months of twelve-hour days, of building something from nothing, of creating beauty that brings people joy, reduced to a hobby.
“Ember. Good to see you again.” Dad’s tone warms with genuine politeness as he notices her approach.
“Mr. Holbrook.” She manages a smile that looks only slightly forced, her fingers unconsciously wiping at the gold dust on her apron. “I was just showing Aria our latest numbers. We’re pretty excited about the growth.”
“As you should be. It’s impressive what you’ve accomplished here.” His tone carries warmth and genuine appreciation, but something underneath it makes my jaw tighten—a pat on the head for the talented child who has done well within her limitations. “Your artistic vision is resonating with customers.”
Artistic vision. As if that’s her entire contribution, while the real business happens elsewhere. I can’t let that stand.
“Ember handles all the creative development.” My voice carries a firmness that surprises even me. “The scent combinations, the aesthetic choices, the custom techniques. It’s her vision that drives everything we do here.”
“Of course.” Dad’s smile doesn’t waver, but something in his eyes suggests he’s humoring me. “Talent recognizes talent. You’ve done well to harness that creativity into something profitable.”
