They talked. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing rehearsed. But it settled between them, weighty and certain.
Stories traded in fragments. A few guarded truths. A joke that made her laugh before she remembered she didn’t do that easily.
And he watched her like a man who noticed things.
Not the surface. Everyone noticed that. He saw what lived beneath it.
When her hand reached for his glass as he set it down, their fingers nearly touched. Again. Still electric.
That’s when he said it: “I have a proposition for you.”
Her hand paused mid-reach, fingers curled around the glass. She looked up, brows raised. “That sounds suspiciously like an invitation.”
He didn’t deny it. Just reached into his jacket and slid a card across the bar, smooth and intentional.
Black. Matte. No nonsense. No embellishments. Clean lettering.
Gideon Blackwell.
The Blackwell Room. New York City.
“Consider it an opportunity,” he said. “Not everyone gets one.”
She didn’t touch it. Not yet. Her voice was quieter. “Why me?”
His expression shifted. Something thoughtful edged out the charm. “Because you don’t belong here.”
She didn’t flinch.
“I’m guessing you already knew that,” he added. “So did I.”
Their eyes locked again. This time, no posturing. No clever line. It wasn’t simply attraction. It was something else. Recognition.
A pull toward someone who saw her for what she was: sharp edges, shadows, and all.
“You ever take a leap,” he asked, “just to see where you land?”
His voice had dropped. Low. Measured. A quiet dare.
Then, he stood, straightened his cuffs, and turned toward the door.
She hadn’t picked up the card. But she felt the weight of it like it had marked her.
At the door, he paused. Looked back. Their eyes met one last time. The faintest lift of his lips.
Then he was gone.
The door eased shut behind him. Quiet. Deliberate.
But the storm he left in his wake? Not quiet at all.
Thunder rolled in the distance. Low. Approaching.
Arden slipped the card into her pocket.
Her pulse was steady.
Her thoughts were not.
