Page 57 of Rescuing Aria
“For future reference?” Ember asks, a teasing note returning to her voice.
“Maybe.” The smile that crosses Ryn’s face this time is real, if fleeting. “When I’m ready.”
Ember and I retreat to give her space, moving to the small office at the back of the shop. The room smells of paper and ink, with hints of the various candles that have passed through over time. I sink into the chair behind the desk, the gravity of what Ryn shared settling on me.
“I keep forgetting how young she is,” Ember murmurs once we’re out of earshot, leaning against the doorframe. “Not much younger than us, but?—”
“A lifetime of difference. For me, at least.” At twenty-five, I feel ancient compared to Ryn’s eighteen years, though the gap is small in actual time. “And how much she’s been through.”
“She’s remarkably resilient.” Ember’s eyes drift back to where Ryn works, her movements precise and focused.
“Aren’t we all?” I observe, thinking of Ember’s own journey from living on the streets as a kid to a business owner. “Survivors adapt.”
“Some are better than others.” Her smile is wry as she pushes off from the doorframe. “Back to work. Those candles won’t pour themselves.”
The rest of the morning passes in comfortable productivity. Ember works on a new winter collection, the scents of pine and cinnamon filling the shop. Ryn meticulously crafts her crystal candles, each one unique and stunning. I handle customers, review inventory, and finally settle at the desk to tackle the paperwork I’ve been avoiding.
Miranda’s business proposal sits at the top of the stack, my father’s handwritten notes visible in the margins. Theheavy cream stationery bears the Holbrook Pharmaceuticals watermark—my father never misses an opportunity to brand himself, even in personal correspondence.
I open the folder and scan the executive summary. The strategy is aggressive—triple production, move to larger commercial space, automated manufacturing, and wider distribution within eighteen months. National presence within three years.
It’s a sound business plan. The projections are realistic, the growth attainable. It would mean significant profit and notable success in the business world my father understands.
It would also mean the end of what makes The Little Matchstick Girl special.
I flip through the pages, noting my father’s annotations in his precise, slanted handwriting. “Eliminate artisanal processes—inefficient.” “Outsource crystal work—too labor-intensive.” “Standardize product line—reduce to 5-7 core offerings.”
Each note feels like a knife to what we’ve built. To what Ember created. To the purpose that has given Ryn a new start.
I close my eyes, remembering the weight of Jon’s body over mine this morning, the security of his arms around me. The way he looked at me when I told him about my father’s expectations.
“You deserve to make your own choices,”Jon’s voice was rough with conviction.“Not his. Yours.”
I glance through the office doorway. Ember stands at her workbench, head bent in concentration as she carefully measures essential oils, testing different combinations. The tip of her tongue peeks out between her teeth, a sign of intense focus I’ve come to recognize. Across the room, Ryn places a final crystal in a candle, her face lighting up with quiet satisfaction at the result.
This is the heart of our business. Not efficiency, not standardization, not market share. This is passion, craftsmanship, and a human touch.
I close the folder with a decisive snap. My father’s vision for The Little Matchstick Girl is notourvision.
Pulling out my phone, I compose a text to my father. I type, delete, retype, struggling to find the right balance between respectful and firm:
“Reviewed Miranda’s proposal. Cannot proceed as outlined. Fundamental misalignment with our brand identity and values. Will develop an alternative strategy that preserves the core business while allowing sustainable growth. Can discuss further at dinner Sunday.”
My finger hovers over the send button. This is more than rejecting a business plan. It’s the first time I’ve directly opposed my father’s vision for my life. The first real step toward independence, toward becoming the woman Jon sees when he looks at me, capable, strong, worthy of making her own decisions, rather than the child my father sees.
I press send.
The response is almost immediate; my phone buzzing in my hand before I can set it down:
“Unacceptable. My office. 7pm tonight.”
Not a request. A summons, delivered with the expectation of unquestioning obedience.
My stomach tightens with familiar anxiety, the lifetime habit of wanting to please him, to earn his approval. For a moment, I’m eight years old again, standing in his study as he coldly lists my shortcomings.
But beneath that old fear, something new takes root. Determination. Resolve. I think of Ember’s fierce independence, of Ryn’s quiet courage. Of Jon’s faith in me.
I set the phone down without replying. Whatever comes next, I’ve made my choice. For Ember, for the business we’ve built together. For the vision of who I’m becoming.
