The air shifted. Less uncertain. More like steel hammered flat and ready.
Gideon couldn’t become his grandfather. But he could honor him.
Protect what mattered.
Even if it meant setting fire to every thread of inheritance binding him to the rest of them.
Some things were worth more than a name.
?
Streetlights spilled fractured gold across Arden’s midnight blue car, their glow catching on the paint in flickering embers.
Her trunk was a study in precision: boxes labeled, supplies neatly stacked, every item in its place like ritual against entropy.
The kind of order born from a life that punished forgetfulness.
She straightened, box in hand.
“What are you doing out here?”
Through the city's noise, she heard him. Always calm. Always clear.
She turned, lips curving into a dry smile as she swiped a loose strand of hair aside. Streetlight caught her eyes—keen, steady, aware.
“Stocking up,” she said, hefting the box like second nature. “Marco’s list. I hate being unprepared.”
Gideon drifted closer, gaze skimming the trunk. Even the emergency kit was packed with intention: jumper cables looped tight, tools secured like they’d been checked twice.
“Marco usually guards his supplies like a dragon hoarding gold.”
Arden’s smirk came quick, conspiratorial. “He was swamped.” She shifted the box without thinking, her grip sure. “I like knowing what’s in front of me. What to expect.”
His brow lifted slightly, eyes drifting to the car. “Still hanging on to this thing?”
For now.“It’s not made for city streets, but it’s reliable. When I needed to leave, it never let me down.”
The words lingered. Like a memory she hadn’t meant to unwrap.
In the distance, a siren wailed faintly. The pulse of the city filled the space they hadn’t.
Gideon nodded, voice lower now. “Manhattan’s not big on mercy.”
“Neither am I.” She slammed the trunk shut causing an echo that seemed louder than it should have.
“And this thing’s saved my ass more than once.”
“You’re full of surprises, Rivers.”
“Says the billionaire playing bartender.”
She adjusted the box on her hip, posture unshakable. For a moment, she looked untouchable—carved from the light instead of merely standing in it.
“Let me help you with that.” He stepped in, reaching for the box. A trace of her perfume, vanilla threaded with something rarer, something sharp, wrapped around him. Barely there. But it landed like a memory.
She shifted the box just out of reach, her smirk deepening.
“I’ve got it.” Light. Resolute. No room for argument.
