Page 124 of Rescuing Aria

His hands frame my face, rough palms warm against my skin, steadying more than just my breath. His eyes hold mine—not calculating, not scanning for threats—but wide open and full of everything he’s never said aloud until now.

No tactical assessment. No mission protocol. Just Jon. Seeing me. Knowing me and choosing me.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it’s never been in question.

“And I love you. More than I thought possible.” The words don’t tremble. They don’t catch. They come strong, sure. “Not because you saved me or protected me, but because you see me. The real me, beneath all the expectations.”

His gaze dips to my mouth. No heat this time. No urgency. Just reverence.

The kiss that follows isn’t a rush of adrenaline or a storm of need—it’s the kind of kiss that settles into your bones. The kind that tells the truth in a thousand quiet ways. His lips press to mine, slow and unhurried, a whisper of devotion and choice. A kiss that says you’re safe now. A kiss that says we made it.

He deepens it just slightly, one hand at the nape of my neck, fingers splayed like he needs to feel every inch of me breathing. My hands slip under his shirt, palms flat against the rigid muscles of his back. Not pulling him closer. Just—holding. Being held.

There’s no place else we need to be. No one watching. No fear of what comes next. Only this.

When we finally part, it’s not with reluctance, but with peace. I stay pressed to him, forehead resting against his chest. His heartbeat is a metronome beneath my ear—calm, constant. My safe place.

Outside, the world keeps turning. But here, in his arms, I’m still.

Around us, the workshop hums softly. Cooling candles. Melted wax. Scattered tools waiting to be used. It smells like lavender and old wood, the scent of things mending.

And for the first time, love doesn’t feel like something fragile.

It feels like a foundation.

Like home.

Outside, the world continues—media inquiries will multiply, investigations will begin. Marcus’s empire will unravel, thread by thread. But here, now, time holds still. Suspended in the warmth of this truth. This love. This clarity forged in fire.

I am Aria.

Not Marcus’s heir. Not Wolfe’s pawn.

Not a survivor of someone else’s war.

I am the architect of my own legacy.

And I choose light.

Even if I had to walk through hell to claim it.

THIRTY-FIVE

Aria

“Perfect timing.”Ember’s voice cuts through the bustle of pre-opening preparations. “The Truth candles just arrived from the manufacturer.”

I set down my clipboard and move toward the delivery boxes stacked near the register. After weeks of testing, refining, and scaling up production, seeing the finished product finally arrive brings a satisfaction deeper than any business achievement under Marcus’s watchful eye ever did.

This is ours. Created from our experience, produced under our direction, marketed according to our vision.

Truth, bottled in glass and wax.

“They look amazing.” Hope appears beside me, carefully lifting one from its protective packaging. The clear glass container allows the amber-gold wax to shine through, unobstructed and luminous. No decorative elements, no embellishment—just pure light waiting to be kindled.

“Your constellation series complements them perfectly.” I gesture toward the display we’ve set up for tonight’s event—Hope’s crystal-embedded candles arranged in astronomicalpatterns, each labeled with gold-flecked star charts and poetic descriptions.

The contrast works exactly as I’d envisioned—my stark, unadorned Truth candles surrounding Hope’s intricate celestial creations. Simplicity and complexity. Revelation and mystery. Different expressions of the same fundamental pursuit—illumination.