CHAPTER 41
The Weight of Gifts
Asleek, meticulously wrapped box lay exactly where Arden kept her things behind the bar. Not casually placed. Not forgotten. Deliberate.
The wrapping paper’s dark, velvety texture seemed to swallow the room’s light, its presence thick with intention. A satin ribbon—smooth as water, black as ink—coiled around the package like a whisper of opulence.
This wasn’t a gift. It was a statement.
Arden froze.
A sharp, electric current snapped through her nerves. Years of bartending and trauma nursing had sharpened her instincts to a razor’s edge, a sixth sense for the subtle shifts most people missed.
And this?
This didn’t whisper danger. It howled.
The air thinned, dense and charged. Like eyes she couldn’t see had already chosen their angle.
Her pulse drummed loud in her ears, her mind slicing through scenarios with surgical focus.
Tell Gideon and risk accelerating a problem she didn’t yet understand?
Loop in Marco or Fatima and risk pulling them into it?
Every option came with a cost.
And she wasn’t ready to give up control.
First, she’d watch. She’d assess. Let it sink in before she moved.
Her fingers hovered above the ribbon, a breath from unraveling the message beneath. One tug, and the curtain would lift. A single tug, and she’d be pulled deeper into whatever this was.
The act of giving could be soft. Sincere. Human.
But this wasn’t tender; it was curated. A performance dressed in luxury, sharpened to a point. A message disguised as generosity.
“Holy shit.” Fatima’s voice snapped the spell, sliding in beside her like a jolt of current.
Arden didn’t flinch, but her fingers trembled above the ribbon.
Fatima’s eyes locked on the box, her easygoing expression gone. Concern flickered, raw and unguarded.
“What the hell is that?” she asked, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and dread. “Looks like a gift a rich psychopath sends before the third act.”
“If only I knew.” Arden’s voice was clipped, dry.
She tugged the ribbon. It unfurled without resistance, silk whispering across itself. The paper opened like it had been waiting.
Lavender.
The scent rose, familiar and disarming. The kind that didn’t just linger but carried memory in its wake. It spilled from the box like a ghost in velvet, soft on the surface, but laced with static that clung to her skin.
Inside: a sleek tin of Delancey’s lavender-chamomile tea, centered with unsettling precision. Beside it, a glass bottle of lavender syrup. Delicate. Pristine. Expensive.
Atop them rested a single ivory card. The handwriting was clean. Practiced. Stripped of personality.
For your creations and relaxation.
