One meeting. One stupidly intense, chemistry-drenched interaction. And she was spiraling?
The black card pulled her attention again. Practically taunting her.
She’d tried digging into The Blackwell Room—articles, forums, social threads.
Nothing.
Mentions in business columns, social gossip: always vague, always curated.
According to Penny, you didn’t apply to work there. You were chosen.
Which made Gideon’s offer even more suspect.
She didn’t belong in his world of old money and power plays.
Penny’s door hinges whined, slicing through Arden’s thoughts.
Penny wandered into the living room barefoot, her hair twisted into a loose, haphazard bun. She clutched her oversized sketchpad like a security blanket, holding it tight against her petite frame. With a practiced sprawl, she dropped into the armchair, radiating that uncanny awareness that made Arden brace for impact.
“So,” she said, her tone casual. But Arden caught the intent beneath it. “When exactly are you going to the club?”
Arden’s spine went stiff, shoulders ticking up slightly.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Penny stared. Blinked. Then did that rapid-fire flutter that said oh, we’re definitely talking about this.
She leaned in, brows raised. “Not sure? You’ve got the look, the chops, and me, your personal hype woman. What gives?”
Arden wrapped both hands around the mug. The heat helped. Solid. Steady. But it didn’t loosen the tension coiled low in her gut.
“It’s not like applying anywhere else. A place like that…” Her voice thinned. “It plays by different rules.”
Cue Penny, loading a comeback. “Exactly. Which is why you need to walk in like you invented it. You’re smart, capable, and let’s be honest, you’re more likely to intimidate than be intimidated. They won’t know what hit them.”
Arden stared into her drink. Steam curled upward. She let out a long breath.
That club wasn’t just exclusive; it was prestige. Polished. Veiled. Stitched into the tapestry of the city.
Power didn’t need an introduction. It passed in posture, in silence. Murmured in the way the walls breathed around you.
And men like Gideon? They didn’t just belong; they built it. Theywereit.
“It’s complicated.”
Quiet. An afterthought.
Penny flipped her sketchpad open, eyes gleaming. She landed on a blank page with a theatrical flick.
“Okay, picture this. You, Arden Rivers, are the kind of woman who rattles the room just by walking into it. And that smoky eye? Absolutely fatal. Gideon Blackwell won’t stand a chance.”
A reluctant flush crept up Arden’s neck. “You’ve got too much faith in me.”
“Nope. Just enough.” Penny grinned, sketching. “But can I ask one thing?”
Arden gave her a look. “Since when has that stopped you?”
“Why is everything you own in grayscale?” Penny gestured with the pencil. “Color exists, you know.”
