She didn’t.
Instead, her eyes flicked to the plaque again:For the ones who matter.
This place, andGideon, felt carved from something deeper.
As she stepped into the hall, cooler air greeted her, but her thoughts stayed lodged in that room.
The soft reverence in his voice.
The heat of his touch.
The look in his eyes when every mask fell away.
Gideon Blackwell wasn’t supposed to feel this real.
Tonight, he did.
And that made him infinitely more dangerous.
CHAPTER 11
Under the Surface
Laughter and jazz spilled from the lounge. Bright. Careless. But it didn’t reach the weight pressing against her ribs.
Arden leaned against the breakroom counter, fingers curled around her phone, trying to focus on anything except the exhaustion coiling through her.
The espresso machine hissed beside her, its low rhythm usually comforting. Tonight, it barely registered.
Nearly a month in, she’d learned The Blackwell Room’s choreography. How power moved in glances, how wealth didn’t speak, only gestured. She’d become fluent in its quiet language, its unspoken rules.
But something tonight was off.
She froze.
A rose.
Deep crimson. Flawless. Resting in the center of the counter.
The room tilted, nausea tugging low in her gut.
Another rose. Another night. A darkened parking garage. The windshield of her car.
No.
She hadn’t seen it when she walked in. She was sure of it. The room had been empty.
Explanations scrambled for footing.
A guest left it behind.
A prop from an event.
Marco, being dramatic.
But none of them held.
Her phone buzzed. She jolted.
