The air shifted,warning her before his voice followed.
“You don’t have to stay late.” His voice broke the quiet, low, steady, and far too aware.
Arden didn’t turn immediately. Instead, she reached for another glass, her movements slow and intentional. Unrushed. Unbothered. As if that sentence hadn’t just brushed along her skin and settled somewhere warm.
“And here I thought billionaires appreciated hard work.”
A quiet chuckle followed.
Then came the sound of footsteps, unhurried and steady, and the scent of his cologne drifted in, warm spice wrapped in shadow.
“I do,” he said, voice calm but threaded with something sharper. “But I also know when someone’s stalling.”
She looked up at last, one brow lifting. “Stalling? You think I enjoy spending my nights scrubbing marble counters?”
His smirk deepened—lazy, knowing, dangerous. “I think you enjoy proving a point.”
She tapped her chin, deadpan. “That does sound like me.”
His eyes caught hers, amusement flickering beneath something harder to name.
“Has no one ever told you? That mouth of yours could start wars.”
“Hmm. Tragic oversight,” she replied, all mock sincerity. “Really appreciate the information. Changes everything.”
He let out a quiet laugh, bracing one hand on the counter. “I’m here to enlighten.”
“How generous of you.” She tossed the bar rag over her shoulder, tilting her head. “I’ll write that in my journal—Gideon Blackwell, dispenser of unsolicited wisdom.”
“Please do. And while you’re at it,” he added, “you might also note that sarcasm is usually a sign of deflection.”
Arden leaned in a fraction, her smile a mirror of his. “And here I thought it was a sign of intelligence.”
“Maybe both,” he allowed, studying her with mock consideration. “I’m still deciding.”
She shook her head, grabbing the last glass. “Take your time, Blackwell. I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
“No doubt,” he said, his voice softer now, more thought than sound.
His gaze hooked into her, a slow burn that settled low and thrummed beneath the surface.
She turned away, fingers finding a glass that didn’t need straightening, her focus a mask for the pulse pounding at the base of her throat.
The club exhaled, dim and still, holding its breath with them.
But the tension didn’t ease.
It simmered between them, taut and unspoken. A quiet standoff. A flirtation edged with fire.
A slow-burn dare neither was readyto walk away from.
Tonight,the private lounge carried a different kind of stillness: softer, warmer. The usual noise of The Blackwell Room had been left behind, swallowed by velvet walls and low, deliberate light.
From somewhere overhead, Michael Bublé’sFeelin’ Goodslipped through the air, smoky and slow, folding itself around the room’s polished edges—spun for moments exactly like this.
Arden hovered at the entrance, blinking against the dim glow. The weight behind her eyes hadn’t disappeared entirely, but here, in this hush made of velvet and gold, it felt like it might ease for a while.
A bottle of red sat open on the table, breathing. Gideon poured without a word and handed her a glass.
