Page 35 of Rescuing Aria

“Have you had a chance to discuss this with Ember?” I scroll through pages of charts and graphs that reduce our work to numbers and percentages.

“I thought we’d review it together, then present the opportunity to her. This is the kind of decision that requires strategic thinking, not artistic input.”

There it is again—the fundamental assumption that Ember’s role is creative while mine is strategic, that business decisions happen between the adults while she provides artistic consultation.

“Ember is my business partner. We’re equal partners. Any decisions about the company’s future need to include her from the beginning.”

“Of course, of course. I just meant… Well, you understand the financial implications better. You can help translate the strategic elements into terms that make sense from her perspective.”

“Her perspective is as my business partner.”

“Right. Your business partner who’s phenomenally talented but doesn’t necessarily have the background to evaluate complex financial projections.”

The conversation continues in circles, Dad enthusiastic about opportunities while I struggle to articulate whyhis approach feels wrong without seeming ungrateful or unprofessional. By the time we hang up, I have a stack of printouts that represent someone else’s vision of our future and a growing sense that I’m standing at a crossroads I never saw coming.

The shop bustles with Friday morning energy when I arrive, the crowd comprising regular customers and weekend tourists who have heard about us through social media or word of mouth. Ryn handles the newcomers while Ember works with a customer on a custom scent blend, her attention focused and genuine.

Watching her interact with customers, something Miranda’s analysis missed entirely, strikes me—the personal connection that drives our success. Ember doesn’t sell candles; she listens to stories, suggests scents that match memories, and creates pieces that feel meaningful to their eventual owners.

It’s not a technique that can be scaled or systematized. It’s the heart of everything we’ve built.

“Heavy thoughts?” Ember appears beside me as the morning rush slows, her voice carrying the kind of gentle concern that’s become familiar between us.

“Miranda’s projections.” I gesture toward the printouts I’ve spread across our shared desk, as if they were evidence of some crime. “Dad’s excited about the potential.”

Ember glances at the spreadsheets, her expression carefully neutral. “What kind of potential?”

“National retail presence. Licensing deals. Revenue projections that would make us millionaires within three years.”

“Millionaires making what?”

It’s a simple question that cuts to the core of my growing unease. Millionaires making mass-produced candles that capture the aesthetic of our work without the meaning.Millionaires who’ve optimized the soul out of something that mattered because it was personal.

“I don’t know.” The admission emerges with startling honesty. “That’s the problem.”

NINE

Jon

The scentof roasted garlic mingles with the sautéing of onions—rich, warm, and grounding. My knife slices clean through the red pepper, the steady rhythm soothing—almost.

But tonight, peace is an illusion. My focus keeps drifting.

To her.

Aria moves barefoot across my kitchen like she belongs there. Like this is her space too. Her hair’s down, wild and golden, tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves instead of that polished curtain she wears like armor. She’s in jeans—my T-shirt hanging loose over her curves, brushing the tops of her thighs—and I can’t stop looking.

It does something to me. Primal. Possessive. She’s in my home, dressed in my clothes, cooking beside me like this is what we do every night.

“Stop staring,” she says, not even glancing up from the garlic she’s mincing.

“Hard not to,” I murmur, watching the smile tug at her lips. She doesn’t deny me the pleasure of it, just keeps chopping, precise and unfazed, like she doesn’t realize how easily she’s unraveling me.

I lean on the counter, arms crossed, letting my gaze linger. “Where’d you learn to handle a knife like that?”

“Boarding school in Switzerland. We had a chef who taught cooking classes on weekends.” She shrugs. “Dad thought it was ridiculous—his exact words were ‘why learn to cook when you can pay someone to do it better?’But I liked it.”

That small rebellion against her father’s expectations—it’s the first of many glimpses I’ll get tonight of the real Aria beneath the polished heiress exterior.