The rest of the day was spent uneventfully: errands, laundry, small tasks that served no real purpose beyond distraction.
Still, she couldn’t stop replaying the moment outside her car.
The way the rose had waited.
The way it had made her feel.
Not afraid. Not anymore.
But watched.
By evening, she was back at The Blackwell Room.
She welcomed the rhythm. The structure. The simple, focused cadence of service.
Polished counters. The clink of steel against glass.
She needed this. The ritual. The illusion of control.
Behind the bar, Marco was already halfway through setup. Fatima stacked glassware at the far end.
“Busy night?” Arden asked.
“Manageable,” Marco said, barely glancing up. “Steady, but not chaos.”
She preferred those nights.
Enough to stay sharp.
Not enough to drown in.
So she slipped back into it: mixing, pouring, moving. Letting repetition wear down the restlessness curled at the base of her spine.
Near closing,the club had thinned to its regulars. Arden moved a rag across the bar, letting the quiet stretch a little longer than it needed to.
Then she heard it: Penny’s voice, lilting and impossible to ignore.
“Hey.”
Arden looked up, instantly suspicious. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this conversation?”
“Because you are. We’re going out.”
Arden groaned. “Nope.”
“Oh, yes. Drinks. Dancing. Debauchery. The works.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
“I’ve had a day.”
“Exactly why you need a night.”
Arden turned to Marco, desperate. “Marco, please.”
“I’m with her.”
