Page 5

Jade

T he Saturday morning sun filters through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in soft gold. I’ve now spent a month at the Inn Above Tide, and I still don’t miss living at my loft—or the family who can’t find me here. Stretching, I feel a rare ease in my body, like I’ve finally begun to thrive instead of just survive.

I slip on a pair of yoga pants and a soft, oversized sweatshirt before heading out. The air is crisp with the scent of salt from the Bay, promising a day as clear as my intent. Last night in my studio, everything clicked. The clay—dark, textured, echoing the shore at the beach—transformed into something elegant yet edgy, just as Chef Mikayla Milne envisioned. Round plates with softly curled edges, bold square pieces, and the appetizer dish with its curved divider—all risks that paid off, the insides smoothed with a matte white glaze.

As I stretch for my run, I think briefly, oddly of Cooper. He never saw the potential in my work, but his doubt became my fuel. This commission isn’t just income, it’s independence—from him, from my family. It’s proof that I don’t need their approval to succeed. I remember the round plate as I turned it in my hands last night. This is good work. Holding culinary creations from Under the Sea, these pieces will be art displaying art. They are my past, present, and my future.

Outside, I set off toward the Golden Gate Bridge. My sneakers strike the pavement in a steady rhythm, the cool morning air sharp in my lungs. These runs are my daily ritual, shaking off the weight of my past, leaving only the sound of my breath and the open path ahead.

Since the wedding that wasn’t, these solitary jogs have become my escape, a time to untangle the knots of expectation and disappointment others tried to tie around me. Cooper’s vulgar messages have finally stopped coming, overshadowed by the chaos of his own making. His recklessness didn’t just ruin my father and brother’s plan, it torpedoed the deal meant to unite our families and strengthen both businesses. There have been consequences in the aftermath.

A wry smile tugs at my lips as I recall my brother JP’s voicemails, gradually shifting from anger to desperation. He needs this deal to secure our father’s approval and claim the crown he’s been chasing all his life. But after years of him treating me like an afterthought, I owe him nothing. My phone buzzes in its holder, interrupting my rhythm. Without breaking stride, I glance at the screen and answer my sister, Alexis.

“What’s new?” I tease lightly, though I know the conversation won’t be light if she’s calling this early.

“You missed dinner.” Alexis’s voice carries a now familiar disappointment.

Business aside, supposedly, my family gathers for dinner once a week when everyone’s in town. I haven’t attended since the not-wedding.

“There was a dinner?” I ask, feigning ignorance. “I didn’t realize.” The lie slips out easily, though we both know the truth. I got an email from our mother demanding my presence, but I had no intention of going.

She exhales sharply. “You need to stop pretending you don’t care, Jade. What if you eventually want your inheritance? It’s not like Dad’s going to reward you after you’ve been skipping out.”

“I think there are quite a few reasons Dad’s not going to reward me at this point,” I remind her. “And I don’t care,” I continue, my tone sharpening. “I’m not playing his games anymore.”

“You don’t have to lay it on so thick with me.”

“You know I love you,” I reply to the only person in this world I know loves me unconditionally.

“Love you back. But last night was a pure cluster. I could have used you there.” She sighs. “JP was in rare form, practically crawling to Dad for approval. He’d do anything—fetch, beg, roll over—just for a pat on the head.”

“And did he get it?” I ask.

“Nope. Dad tore him down anyway. Told him he doesn’t have the brains to lead, let alone close the deal. It was brutal.”

“Sounds like vintage Dad,” I say, though the image twists my stomach. “And JP just took it?”

“Like always.” Her voice drops. “It’s like he doesn’t know how to stop. If JP had any pride, he’d be embarrassed for himself. It’s like watching a dog.”

I navigate a turn, the city waking up around me, the distant hum of traffic seeping into my awareness. “He needs to figure out that it’s time to get out of Dad’s shadow.”

“Of course he does, but it’s too late. Dad is still pushing this deal with the Waldorfs because he wants the land they have outside of Sacramento to move the ore he’s mining. It’s not like they couldn’t buy something else, but Dad wants this particular piece,” Alexis says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Dad’s dangling retirement like a carrot on a stick. JP gets the CEO title if he seals the deal. If not… Well, he’s toast.”

“And he’ll blame everyone but himself,” I mutter. “Classic JP, and we all know Dad is never going to retire. He’ll die at his desk, and whoever is the flavor of the month will be named his successor.”

“I’d suggest Dad hire a taster then,” Alexis counters. “JP is getting tired of jumping through hoops.”

“Doesn’t sound like I missed anything new.”

“It’s sickening. Why do we have to compete for Mom and Dad’s attention? For their love?” Her despair is almost palpable, and my heart clenches.

“You don’t have to keep playing their games,” I remind her, my voice softening. “You’re so supportive of me, but you have that power too. Walk away. You’d be so much better off.”

“Better off like you?” She sighs. “Sorry. I just… It’s not that easy for me.”

“It could be,” I insist. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“And you’re braver than I am,” she admits quietly. “Some of us aren’t ready to blow everything up just to see what’s left.”

“Lex—”

“Bryant needs me. Gotta go,” Alexis says abruptly, and the call ends.

Alone once more, I push harder, imagining my legs carrying me farther from the tangled web of family politics. With each step, I feel lighter. Lenny Kravitz’s raspy voice fills my ears, “American Woman” serving as both anthem and distraction as I pound the pavement. I’m so enveloped in my own world that I don’t notice him at first.

It’s not until I feel a tap on my shoulder that I’m jolted from my reverie, adrenaline spiking as I practically jump out of my skin. Fumbling with an earbud, I yank it free and spin around to face the idiot who tapped me on the shoulder.

“Jesus,” I exclaim. My eyes widen for a split second before a smile tugs at my lips. “It’s you, my getaway driver. You scared the hell out of me.” I push my damp hair back from my face.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice breathless but light. “You ran right past me. I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last quarter mile.”

His smile widens, and it’s disarming in a way that catches me off guard. There’s something in his expression—not just relief, but like seeing me has genuinely brightened his day. It’s unsettling in a way that makes my heart skip.

He chuckles, the sound warm and easy. “Who are you running away from today?”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Not running away,” I say, my words surprising me. “Running toward something, anything that isn’t standing still, I guess.”

His eyes change, and the teasing edge fades. My words have hit him in a way I wasn’t expecting, like they’ve struck a chord. I wonder if he understands, if he sees what I’m really saying, not about the run, but about my life, about leaving behind the desperation that drove me into his car that day.

For a second, I think he might say something, maybe even share a piece of himself. But the moment lingers in silence, a quiet connection buzzing between us like static in the air.

I cast a glance back, and I can hardly make out my hotel.

“Really?” he says. “Because it looks more like you’re chasing something—or someone—away.”

“Demons,” I admit. My expression shifts, and I know he sees it. But I’m not hiding, not this time. “I’m chasing away my demons.”

His reaction surprises me. There’s no awkwardness, no attempt to smooth over the honesty with platitudes or jokes. Instead, he nods. “Ah, demons. Nasty things to have on your tail.” He rolls his shoulders and lets the tension slip away. “Tell me about them,” he says. “They’re less scary with a good soundtrack and a view of the bridge.”

I glance toward the horizon, where the bridge glows softly, and something inside me loosens. He doesn’t press, doesn’t demand answers, and somehow, that makes me want to tell him more. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then,” he says, stepping back as if to let me continue my run.

“Maybe just a tiny piece of it,” I admit, and for a split second, I consider asking him to join me, to share the path and the effort to stay one step ahead of what haunts us. But instead, I offer him a grateful nod. “Thanks for…well, for scaring me. It’s a good reminder to stay alert.”

“Anytime,” he replies, his laughter easy. “Rhys Smalls,” he adds, offering his hand before I can take off. “I guess I’ll leave you to your demons, then.”

“Jade Allerton.” I take a breath and smile, hoping my tone stays light, even as my nerves threaten to show. “Actually, you were so kind to a strange woman who jumped into your car.” My voice wavers just slightly, but I press on, my gaze meeting his. “Would you let me take you to dinner? To thank you, properly?”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, I worry he’ll say no. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to read people entirely.

“Sure,” he says.

I blink, surprised at how quickly this feels natural. Why did I worry he would say no? But dinner with him? A man I barely know, whose name was a mystery until moments ago? It feels reckless. But then again, isn’t that why I jumped into his car in the first place? Taking a chance. Running toward something new. Something better than what I’d thought possible. And for reasons I can’t quite explain, it feels like he’s part of that.

“I’m still staying at the Inn Above Tide,” I tell him, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face. “Under the name Aurora Belle.”

“Aurora Belle?” His eyebrow arches.

“Aurora is my sister Alexis’s favorite princess—Sleeping Beauty. And I’ve always been partial to Belle from Beauty and the Beast. We use the names when we need to be discreet, so our mother can’t track us down.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” he says. But there’s no pressing demand in his tone, just a gentle acknowledgment.

“Maybe one I’ll share over dinner,” I suggest.

“Looking forward to it, Aurora Belle.” He grins.

I nod. “Me too. And I promise to be less elusive.”

“Elusive,” Rhys repeats as if tasting the word, considering its fit for me. “Well, I’ll make sure to not lose you again. I’ll call you at the hotel,” he promises, and something in his straightforward gaze tells me he’s a man of his word.

“Where would you be calling from?” I ask, trying to seem casual.

“From just down there.” He points to a group of multimillion-dollar waterfront homes within view.

I’ve always wondered who bought a house where the foot traffic and noise runs probably all day and night. Now, I know.

“The blue and white one with the red door. But really, I’m just Rhys. That’s all anyone needs to know to find me here.”

“And if ‘just Rhys’ doesn’t answer?”

“Then try EnergiFusion,” he says. “They always know where to find me during business hours.”

“Got it,” I say.

There’s a pause, a comfortable silence, and then he steps back, offering a wave.

“Goodbye, Jade,” he calls, turning to run down the boardwalk.

“Bye,” I manage, but then he’s gone.

He didn’t press for more details about our last encounter, and he also didn’t smile big when I said the Allerton name. It’s refreshing to be without the prying questions or expectations. I find myself watching him until he becomes another part of the landscape, and a strange sense of longing settles over me.

Possibility sends a thrill through me, leaving me with an anticipation that feels both foreign and exhilarating. It carries me back to my hotel, and as I enter, I glance around the lobby, always expecting my mother to show up. But everything is clear, and I take the elevator up to my room.

Wiping away sweat, I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and see the message light blinking on the hotel phone. I press the button, and Rhys’s voice fills the room, casual yet confident. “I’m glad I ran into you—literally. Are you available for dinner tonight?” he asks. He rattles off his “private phone number,” and I jot it down.

Then, for a moment, I just stand there, the weight of the handset pressing into my palm, before I dial back.

“Hey, it’s Jade,” I say when he picks up. “Dinner sounds great. How about the Shrimp Shack?”

“Perfect,” he replies, and I imagine his smile through the line, the same one that flickered over his face when he waved goodbye. “Does seven work for you?”

“Yes. I’ll see you there.” I hang up, setting the phone down as if it’s made of glass, fragile with the potential of what tonight could bring. The room feels different now, charged with energy.

I shower and change, then head to my studio across town. Once settled inside, the clay meets my hands, cool and pliable, yielding to my touch. As the wheel spins, it feels like the world slows, each movement deliberate, each curve intentional. A large soup bowl begins to take shape, its edges curling gently upward, like it knows it was always meant to be this way.

I pause, fingers brushing over the smooth surface, and a quiet satisfaction rushes through me. This is mine. Every line, every curve—an echo of decisions made and risks taken. The clay doesn’t push back or demand more than I’m willing to give. It bends where I guide it, shaping itself into something beautiful and whole.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel that same quiet certainty about my life. Piece by piece, I’m reclaiming it, carving out something of my own. And just like this bowl, it doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be mine.

The hours slip by in a swirl of productivity and daydreams, images of Rhys interspersed with the focus required for my craft. I catch myself smiling at nothing, at everything.