Arden huffed a soft laugh, the corners of her mouth betraying her before she could stop them. “That’s dramatic.”
Fatima grinned. “Maybe. But I see the way he watches you. That’s not managerial concern. That’s a man who’d burn the world down without a second glance.”
Arden didn’t reply immediately.
The heat that bloomed beneath her skin had nothing to do with the gin. She reached for the chamomile syrup, measured it with steady hands.
“He’s… Gideon,” she said finally. No scoff, no dismissal. Just his name, heavy with meaning she hadn’t yet figured how to hold.
Fatima’s expression softened. She didn’t press. Just tilted her head toward the drink Arden was building. “Well, finish your spellwork, witch. I need five minutes of peace, and your cocktails are the closest thing I’ve got to a religious experience.”
Arden smiled, focused on the delicate pour.
Lavender. Citrus. Light stirred into shadows.
Her rhythm returned, practiced and precise; even if her body still hummed with memory, even if her mind refused to stop whispering what she already knew.Everything had shifted.
She slid the glass across the bar, and Fatima took one sip before groaning like she’d seen salvation.
“Arden, this is dangerous. Give me three and I’ll forget I work here.”
A real laugh slipped out this time, but it faltered the moment her gaze drifted toward the far end of the bar.
Gideon was there, still and unwavering.
And this time, he didn’t pretend to look away.
—
The club hummed with wealth and power, every polished surface reflecting a part of the carefully curated world Gideon had built.
His world.
A world built on legacy and lineage, one he’d been groomed to inherit, until it slipped through his fingers like sand.
Sebastian lingered at the edge of the room, a shadow rendered in flesh and tailored wool, his smirk coiled with irony as Gideon moved through the space with the entitled ease of someone who’d never had to earn it.
Because he did, didn’t he?
The perfect heir. The one Henry Hawthorne had chosen.
Sebastian clenched his glass tighter, its polished heft a small anchor againstthe rising tide of betrayal—familiar, corrosive, and sharp-edged with everything he’d once believed was his.
For years, their family had whispered his name first.
Sebastian, the eldest grandchild.
Sebastian, the natural successor.
Sebastian, the one who should have carried the Hawthorne name forward.
But when Henry died, the will told a different story.
A story where Sebastian was cast aside.
A story where Gideon took everything.
And why? Because Henry had believed in potential.
