But the card said otherwise. Said maybe she wanted more. More than safety. More than routine. More than the small, careful life she’d built in Silverbranch.
“Damn, girl. If that’s not a ‘take-no-prisoners’ look, I might need to step up my game.” Penny’s voice cut through the quiet as she swept into the doorway, a joyful mix of wild curls, floral layers, and striped tights that somehow worked in her chaotic magic.
Arden fought a grin. “It’s basically a go-see, Pen. Not the Met Gala.”
“Oh, please,” Penny scoffed, stepping in to adjust Arden’s collar. “When it’s the Blackwell empire, same thing.” Her eyes glimmered, playful, but protective too. “Remember: eye contact. Steel spine. And don’t let anyone, no matter how important, rattle you.”
Arden exhaled slowly. “I think I can handle one night with Manhattan’s elite.”
Penny’s brow arched. “But babe, this isn’t just any boss. We’re talking Gideon Blackwell, the city’s most eligible billionaire slash enigmatic club owner slash brooding mystery man.”
Arden rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. He rescues kittens and funds orphanages?”
“I mean, probably,” Penny shot back. “But more importantly, he’s a walking thirst trap, and you’re about to walk straight into his lair. I’m living for it.”
Arden laughed, soft and unwilling. Amusement edged in anyway. She slung her bag over her shoulder, Penny’s words still ringing. Less a joke, more a challenge.
Her boots struck pavement, steady as her pulse. The city unfolded ahead like a challenge. Maybe tonight wasn’t about playing it safe. Maybe it was time to find out what happened when she rewrote the story herself.
?
The Blackwell Room didn’t loom. It waited. Unmarked. Unassuming. A sleek black façade with no signage, no invitation. Power didn’t announce itself; the people who mattered knew. Arden paused on the sidewalk, chin lifted slightly, taking it in. Calculating. Noting what most wouldn’t.
A brass plaque etched with a solitary B. A symbol, not a name. Recognition wasn’t given; it was assumed. Two men flanked the door. Not greeters. Gatekeepers. A test. And tonight, she was the one being evaluated.
She smoothed the line of her blouse, squared her shoulders, exhaled like drawing a blade. Confidence wasn’t flair. It was armor.
She reached for the handle. It opened before she touched it.
A man stood in the threshold, tall and still. Not in uniform. Not expected. Eyes sharp, expression unreadable. Someone watching.
Arden didn’t flinch. “Thank you,” she said evenly, moving past him without a second glance.
Inside, luxury unfolded in low tones and subtle textures. An elegance that didn’t beg for attention, but commanded it all the same. The chandeliers overhead glowed low and warm, casting quiet halos across polished wood and velvet trim.
No grand gestures. Just atmosphere, thick with intention.
The scent hit first: woodsmoke and citrus, curated to linger in memory. Marble floors gleamed beneath her boots, each step echoing in quiet defiance.
Her gaze flicked across velvet chairs and dark wood tables, arranged not for comfort, but for strategy. The kind of place where deals weren’t made. They were sealed.
No windows. No phones. No distractions.
Just whispers, dark liquor, and leverage dressed in couture.
But Arden hadn’t come to blend in; she came to be seen. She approached the bar with purpose—gauging and curious eyes followed her.
Let them look. Let them wonder.
“Arden Rivers. I’m here to see Gideon Blackwell.”
The bartender stilled mid-pour, eyes sliding from Arden to a narrow, unmarked door behind the bar. “I don’t believe Mr. Blackwell is expecting anyone.”
Her smile sharpened. “No. But he’ll want to see me.”
He hesitated, reading the challenge, then vanished silently behind the door.
Arden exhaled. She wasn’t here for a meeting. She was here to make noise.
