Page 119 of Rescuing Aria

I need it all, but now isn’t the time to rest.

When the last mourner finally departs, leaving us alone beside the grave, I allow my shoulders to drop. The performance ends, the mask slips, exhaustion floods in.

“You did well.” Jon’s voice carries quiet pride.

“I did what was expected.” I stare at the hole in the ground that now contains Marcus Holbrook. “The perfect daughter, even at the end.”

“No.” Jon turns me to face him, hands gentle on my shoulders. “You did what was necessary. There’s a difference.”

The distinction matters, though I’m too tired to fully process why. Jon sees beyond the performance to the purpose beneath. Understands that today wasn’t about honoring Marcus but about witnessing an ending.

“Take me home.” My voice cracks slightly, the first sign of the emotions I’ve held at bay throughout the service. “Not to his penthouse. To the shop.”

Jon nods, understanding immediately. The penthouse was Marcus’s domain, filled with his presence, his taste, his control. The shop is mine—the life I built for myself, the space where I exist as simply Aria, not Marcus Holbrook’s daughter.

As we walk toward the waiting car, I don’t look back at the grave. There’s nothing there for me now. Nothing but earth covering a stranger I thought I knew.

THIRTY-THREE

Aria

The Little Matchstick Girlwelcomes me with scents of amber and vanilla, familiar and grounding. Ember looks up from behind the counter, concern evident in her expression as we enter.

“You’re back earlier than expected.” She sets aside the inventory clipboard, moving around the counter to meet us. “How was it?”

“Appropriate.” The word contains multitudes of meanings—the perfect funeral for an imperfect man, social obligations fulfilled, appearances maintained. “Everything Marcus would have wanted.”

Ember’s mouth quirks slightly, understanding the layers beneath my response. She’s learned to read between the lines, to hear what isn’t said aloud. One of the many reasons our friendship works.

“The shop’s been quiet,” she reports, shifting to practical matters with characteristic sensitivity. “Just the usual Tuesday regulars. Hope helped a few customers find signature scents.”

“She did?” This catches my attention, drawing me from the funeral fog toward something brighter. “On her own?”

“Completely.” Pride warms Ember’s voice. “Mrs. Larson was particularly impressed. Said Hope had an ‘intuitive understanding of fragrance profiles.’”

A small victory, but significant. Two weeks ago, Hope could barely make eye contact with customers. Now, she’s helping them find personal scents, engaging directly, and building confidence with each interaction.

“Where is she now?” I glance around, not seeing her in the main shop area.

“Back room, working on a new crystal suspension technique.” Ember gestures toward the workshop. “Ryn’s been teaching her. They’re really bonding, and she’s been experimenting all morning.”

The normalcy of this—inventory counts, customer interactions, creative experimentation—settles something inside me. Life continues. The shop thrives. People heal, grow, and create, even in the shadow of death and revelation.

“That’s amazing. I’m glad to hear it.” The funeral dress suddenly feels suffocating; Marcus’s influence wrapped around me. “I’m going to change, and I want to see what Hope’s working on.”

Jon touches my arm lightly. “I’ll check perimeter security while you do that.”

Still the protective operative, even here in this safe space. I don’t argue. His routines comfort him the same way mine comfort me. We each process trauma in our own way.

Upstairs in my apartment, I shed the black dress like a snake shedding skin, hanging it in the back of my closet where I won’t have to look at it. In its place, I choose soft jeans and a worn sweater—clothes Marcus would have dismissed as “casual to the point of carelessness.”

Good. Let my choices be my own, not echoes of his expectations.

The folder Jon brought from Guardian HRS still sits on my coffee table, waiting. I’ve read through it twice now—police reports, financial records, medical files. The evidence of Marcus’s crimes is laid out in meticulous detail. The truth about my mother’s death. About Wolfe’s connection to our family.

About who I am.

DNA tests will confirm paternity eventually. The timeline makes it possible—even likely—that Damien Wolfe, not Marcus Holbrook, was my biological father. That the half-brothers’ feud extended to me, to my very existence.