Page 115 of Rescuing Aria

Aria deserves nothing less than complete honesty, but I believe she’ll understand the need to keep her father’s operation out of the public eye. Although, after everything Marcus took from her, I won’t take that from her. She needs to decide what happens next.

Aria’s apartment, above The Little Matchstick Girl, smells of vanilla and amber, warm notes that contrast with the cool evening air. I knock lightly, and the door opens immediately—she’s been waiting. Hope stands behind her, watchful but no longer flinching at sudden movements. Progress, small but significant.

“Jon.” My name on her lips still does something to my pulse rate, tactical training notwithstanding. “You’re late.”

“Debriefing ran long.” I step inside as she moves back, cataloging details automatically. Two mugs are on the coffee table. A half-empty bottle of wine. Shoes kicked off by the couch. Signs of life continuing despite everything.

Hope retreats to the guest room with a small nod in my direction, giving us privacy. Another sign of progress—trust is developing where fear once ruled.

When the door closes behind her, Aria steps into my space, arms wrapping around my waist, face pressing into my chest. I hold her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other splayed across her back. Her heartbeat against mine, steady despite everything.

For a long moment, we breathe together. No words, no questions, no demands. Just connection, grounding, and presence.

“How did it go?” she finally asks, voice muffled against my shirt.

“Standard procedure after an operation of this magnitude.”

“What will the official story be?” She pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine.

Smart, perceptive Aria—already anticipating the sanitized version that will protect reputations and limit scandal.

“That is up to you. Guardian HRS’s version will be Marcus Holbrook died protecting his daughter from his estranged half-brother, a known criminal.” I repeat CJ’s approved narrative. “Family tragedy. Nothing about organ trafficking or your mother’s death.”

“They’re protecting his reputation?” Her expression tightens, blue eyes sharpening.

“For now.” I touch her cheek gently. “The evidence is secured, not destroyed. What happens with it is your decision, when you’re ready.”

She absorbs this, processing implications with the quick intelligence that continues to impress me. “And Guardian HRS? What’s their interest in keeping his secrets?”

“Public investigations bring scrutiny. That scrutiny will drive those who worked for him underground…”

“And prevent Guardian HRS from taking out the entire operation?”

“Correct.” I squeeze her hand gently. “A media circus is the last thing you need right now, but if you think otherwise…”

“I know what’s at stake, and if it saves one person, it’s enough.”

She doesn’t argue, which tells me more about her mental state than any words could. Normally, Aria would challenge any decision made on her behalf, any attempt to manage what she can and cannot do. That she accepts this explanation suggests her exhaustion is deeper than physical.

She nods, decision made. She leans against me, head resting on my shoulder.

“Tonight, I just want to exist without being Marcus’s daughter or Wolfe’s target or even Aria Holbrook.”

“Whatever you need.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer.

“I need you.” The simple word carries layers of meaning, of trust, of something deeper than operational parameters or protective protocols. “Just you.”

“You have me.” Three words, inadequate but honest. “However, you need me.”

Her eyes close briefly, some of the tension leaving her expression. When she looks at me again, determination replaces her exhaustion.

Her bedroom is familiar territory now—the cloud-soft comforter, the candles on every surface, the photos of friends and happier times lining the dresser. I’ve held her here before, after nightmares and revelations and moments when the weight of everything threatened to crush her.

Tonight feels different. Not frantic with adrenaline or desperate with fear. Just quiet need for connection, for proof that we’ve both survived. That something remains worth saving.

She turns in my arms, face tilting up to mine. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and none of this will have happened. That Marcus will still be alive, still be my father, still be the man I thought I knew.”

“I know.” I brush her hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “The mind tries to protect itself from trauma.”