They were weak. Blind. Undeserving.
They didn’t see her.
But he did.
His Little Fire.
Leaning back,he exhaled slow, controlled, his weight pressing into the leather chair.
Arden Rivers didn’t belong in their shallow, plastic world of false smiles and hidden blades.
She needed something real.
Somewhere she could breathe.
Somewhere she could be seen.
Every crack. Every edge. Every wild, untamed piece of her.
She didn’t need Gideon Blackwell. She needed him.
And when the dust settled—when the rest of them fell away—he’d make sure he was the only one left standing.
His plans were in motion.
And soon, his Little Fire would finally understand.
She had always belonged to him.
CHAPTER 19
Beneath the Glimmer
Evening light skimmed across the marble floors. It caught on movement, muttering against the stone like a secret. The sconces glowed warm and low, but the corners stayed dark—where light didn’t dare reach, where secrets liked to settle.
Arden had spent weeks learning the unspoken rules—how money amplified whispers into threats, how power moved across the room like smoke. Behind the bar, her hands moved on instinct, arranging bottles, aligning glasses. The motions were muscle memory, usually enough to settle her nerves.
Not tonight.
Something buzzed beneath her skin: a warning with no words yet.
“Arden.” Marco’s voice was low, more serious than usual. “You’ve been solid, but tonight? Be careful. The Blackwells are coming in.”
The stemware creaked in her hand. She kept her voice neutral. “They’re always here. What’s different?”
“Evelyn’s coming.”
The name hit like a dropped stone in her chest. Evelyn Hawthorne Blackwell.
The words landed heavy, like a weight sinking into still water.
The matriarch behind the curtain. Invisible but omnipresent.
His eyes scanned the room with sharp focus. “And she’ll be bringing the cavalry. They’re staging a power play.”
Arden hadn’t met her, not officially. But she’d felt her in every guarded glance, every subtle shift in atmosphere. She was a force. And forces didn’t tolerate disruption.
“Should I curtsy?” she asked dryly.
