Page 121 of Rescuing Aria
Jon’s eyebrow lifts slightly at this information, a look passing between us that contains volumes. We’ll discuss Storm’s increasingly frequent visits later, in private. For now, the focus remains on Hope’s creative development.
“It’s excellent work.” Jon’s praise, always measured and genuine, clearly means as much to Hope as it does to me. “Distinctive product concept with strong market potential.”
The security operative and the business strategist blend seamlessly in him, an analytical mind appreciating both the artistic and commercial elements of Hope’s design. Another reason we work well together is that his practical assessment balances my creative impulses.
“We were just discussing production timeline for the winter launch,” I explain, including him naturally in the conversation. “Hope thinks we could have five constellation designs ready by November.”
The three of us fall into an easy discussion of logistics, supplies, and marketing approaches. The rhythm of normal business operations wraps around us like a protective blanket, creating space where healing can happen quietly, alongside everyday tasks.
This is how we move forward—not through dramatic declarations or radical transformations, but through simple moments of creation and connection. Through finding purpose in work that matters, in relationships that sustain.
Later, after Hope returns to her experiments and Jon steps outside to take a call from Guardian HRS, Ember joins me behind the register. We work in comfortable silence for several minutes, restocking display items and updating inventory logs. The familiar routines ground me, remind me who I am beyond Marcus’s daughter or Wolfe’s potential biological child.
“You seem better than I expected.” Ember’s observation comes without preamble, direct as always. “After the funeral, I mean.”
I consider this assessment, measuring my internal state against the morning’s events. “I am. Better than I expected.”
“Why do you think that is?”
The question deserves honest reflection. I pause in labeling a row of amber votives, searching for the right words.
“Because I realized something today, while standing by that grave.” The understanding crystallizes as I speak it aloud. “Marcus Holbrook wasn’t my father. Not really. He was my jailer, my controller, my owner. The man I grieved—the father I thought I had—never existed.”
Ember nods, understanding without judgment. “So there’s nothing left to mourn.”
“Exactly.” Relief floods through me at being so completely understood. “I already grieved the father I thought I had when Wolfe revealed the truth. Today was—witnessing an ending. Confirmation.”
“And Wolfe?” Her question comes gently, aware of the complicated emotions surrounding my potential biological father.
“A monster of a different kind.” I set down the pricing gun, meeting her gaze directly. “Biology doesn’t make someone family. Neither of them was truly my father. Not in any way that matters.”
“Family is who loves you.” Ember’s voice carries the weight of someone who learned this truth through experience. “It’s who chooses you. Who helps you become your best self rather than controlling who you are.”
“Yes.” The simple affirmation contains multitudes. “And by that definition, I have more family now than I ever did living in Marcus’s penthouse.”
Ember’s smile warms, understanding precisely what I mean—that she counts among that chosen family, along with Ryn and Hope and Jon and the Delta team, who’ve become fixtures in our lives.
The shop bell chimes, interrupting our moment of connection. A customer enters—a middle-aged woman, stylish yet not ostentatious, with a wedding ring that suggests a disposable income. She epitomizes the target demographic for our premium lines.
“Welcome to The Little Matchstick Girl.” I slip easily into professional mode, moving from behind the counter to greet her. “First visit with us?”
As I guide the customer through our signature collections, describing scent profiles and burn times, something settles inside me. This is who I am—not defined by Marcus’s crimes or Wolfe’s biology or even the trauma of what I’ve survived.
I’m defined instead by what I choose to create. By who I choose to become. By the light I bring to darkness rather than the shadows that created me.
THIRTY-FOUR
Aria
Evening transformsthe shop into something magical. Display candles glow from strategic locations, casting amber shadows against white walls. The day’s transactions are complete, the floors are swept, and tomorrow’s production schedule is finalized.
I move through our closing routine—checking door locks, adjusting the thermostat, and counting the register. The familiar checklist anchors me to life continuing despite everything that’s happened.
A soft knock at the front door draws my attention. Through the glass, Storm’s broad shoulders are unmistakable. I check my watch—8:15 PM, well past our posted business hours. Not a casual visit then.
I open the door; the security code temporarily disabled. “Storm. Everything okay?”
“Routine check.” His response comes automatically, professional mask in place. Then, slightly less formal, “Jon asked me to verify perimeter security while he’s at HQ.”
