Arden flickered onto the screen, laughter breaking through the grainy security footage like sunlight through storm clouds. It disarmed him. The sheer warmth of her, even in black-and-white.
She leaned against the bar, radiating easy confidence, her dark waves catching light even in grayscale. Her blue eyes gleamed with mischief as she teased Marco, her smirk razor-sharp and knowing. A woman entirely at ease in her own skin.
Fatima stood beside her, bold and bright, the suggestion of color in her patterned blouse adding energy to the otherwise monochrome feed. Marcogestured wildly as he spun another story, his hands slicing the air with over-the-top flair.
Laughter rippled between them—unrestrained, effortless. It was the only real thing in a world built on careful facades.
Gideon exhaled, tension uncoiling in his chest. She didn’t belong to this place. She cracked the Blackwell family’s polished illusion—made it feel like something worth salvaging.
He leaned back, fingers tapping the desk. He knew better than to hold onto moments like this. Better than to believe anything that made himfeelcould last.
Hope in the Blackwell family was dangerous.
And Evelyn? She’d noticed her.
That was a death sentence.
“Marco,I swear—if I hear one more Paris story, I’m charging you fiction rates,” Arden muttered, setting a crystal glass on the bar with the ease of muscle memory.
Fatima snorted, tucking a curl behind her ear. “She’s not wrong. You can’t go five minutes without name-dropping France.”
Marco clutched his chest as if she’d shot him. “Wounded,” he gasped. “Deeply.”
Arden tilted her head, unimpressed. “Want me to fetch some smelling salts from the back?”
He straightened with exaggerated dignity. “For the record, I never said I played in those Parisian clubs. I simply… observed.”
“Right.” She wiped the counter with deliberate slowness. “Let me guess—Miles Davis begged for your input?”
Marco steepled his fingers, solemn. “Exactly. Told him trumpet was his thing. You’re welcome, jazz.”
Their laughter spilled through the room, loose and unrestrained, carving warmth into a space never meant to feel this human.
The club—polished, exclusive, a shrine to power—felt different.
For once, it wasn’t about roles or expectations. They were just… them.
Marco leaned across the counter, grinning. “You know, Arden, for someone who claims to hate my stories, you sure remember all the details.”
She rolled her eyes, but the way her fingers hovered guardedly on the next glass gave her away. “I have to,” she said. “Otherwise, how would I know when you’re full of it?”
Fatima bumped her shoulder. “Don’t lie. You’d miss him if he stopped.”
Arden opened her mouth to argue, but Marco was already pointing, triumphant.
“Aha! She likes my stories.”
She sighed, long and dramatic. “This is what I get for growing soft.”
“Too late now, Mountain Mama,” Fatima said with a wide smile.
The words landed differently this time. Like a key sliding into a lock. Like something in her bracing finally… letting go.
She let out a quiet laugh, shook her head. But the knowing had bloomed—quiet and sure—in her chest.
She’d spent years surviving. Keeping people at arm’s length. Choosing solitude over the risk of being left behind.
But this? This wasn’t conditional or transactional. It didn’t ask her to earn it or shrink to keep it.
