He movedthrough the room with gravity. No urgency. No flash. Impossible to ignore.
Gideon Blackwell descended the staircase with the same focused intensity she remembered from Dot’s. Only now, he wasn’t out of place. He was the axis around which this club spun.
His suit was expensive, the kind that whispered rather than shouted, but his eyes stopped her. Steel-gray. Locked in. Already reading her. When their gazes met, something passed between them. Fast. Hot. Undeniable.
He stopped in front of her, close enough to thin the air between them.
“Arden Rivers.” Her name sounded remembered, not discovered.
She didn’t flinch.
“Gideon Blackwell.”
His name carried weight. Danger wrapped in elegance. Up close, tension showed in his shoulders, faint exhaustion beneath his eyes. None of it dulled his presence; it made him sharper.
“I have to admit—” she started, hesitating briefly, lip caught between her teeth before lifting her chin. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember?—”
“I could never forget you.” Not flirtation. Truth.
A breath caught in her throat, hidden by a subtle smirk. “Good. Because I didn’t come here to be forgettable.”
A real flicker sparked in his eyes: amusement, approval, something darker.
“No,” he murmured. “You’re not.”
“You’ve seen what I can do,” she said, tipping her head toward the polished bar. “But this place isn’t Dot’s.”
His lips twitched. “No, it’s not.” A pause. A single breath between them. “Show me.”
Not a request. A challenge. And she answered.
Arden moved behind the bar smoothly: cool, confident. “This place isn’t really about the drinks. It’s about control.” She poured without hesitation. “Your regulars want to feel curated. Chosen. Known.” She glanced at him. “They come to be served before they ask. To feel powerful.”
He observed her with calm that demanded attention. The space between them vibrated, charged. “You think you can give them that?”
She slid the glass toward him. “I don’t need to think. I know. But this isn’t about them. It’s about you.”
He lifted the glass without breaking eye contact. Assessing her, not the drink. “What makes you think I need convincing?”
Her smirk deepened. “You gave me that card. You wanted me here.”
“This was never about answering to you,” she added. “This was about flipping the script.”
He leaned in slightly, voice lower. “The card was a door. What you choose to walk through is yours.”
She didn’t flinch. “Then consider this my entrance.”
Their dynamic pivoted. No longer a test—now recognition.
“You want the job.”
“I want the opportunity. The job’s how I prove I earned it.”
His fingers tapped a sharp rhythm against the marble. “Most people would’ve called first.”
She smiled. “I’mnot most people.”
He laughed, low and genuine. “I’m starting to believe that… The standards here are high.”
