Page 68 of Rescuing Aria

“Relax,” Aria murmurs, her hand light on my arm as we approach the entrance. “You look like you’re walking into an ambush.”

“Force of habit.” I manage a smile, though the comparison isn’t far off. “Professional hazard.”

She stops just short of the door, turning to face me. The transformation I’ve watched unfold during our drive here is complete now—Aria Holbrook, socialite daughter, poised and perfect. Her simple black dress and subtle jewelry scream money in the way only true wealth can—effortlessly. Even her posture has shifted, spine straighter, chin lifted, a polished armor sliding into place.

But her eyes—those haven’t changed. They still look at me with the same warmth, the same quiet strength that first drew me in.

“Thank you for doing this.” Her voice drops, meant only for me. “I know it’s not exactly how you wanted to spend your evening.”

“I’m with you.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, a small intimacy. “That makes it exactly where I want to be.”

Her smile softens something in my chest. Then she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and nods to the host who has appeared silently at the door.

“Ms. Holbrook.” He inclines his head. “Your father is waiting in the private dining room.”

Of course he is. Nothing so pedestrian as the main floor for Marcus Holbrook.

We follow the host through the dimly lit restaurant, past tables of power brokers and celebrities pretending not to notice each other. The private dining area occupies the rear of the building—exclusive, separated from the common folk by frosted glass doors that whisper open at our approach.

Marcus Holbrook rises from his seat at the sole table, his movement as precise as everything else about him. Tall, imposing, with silver-streaked dark hair and the kind of face that’s never known uncertainty. His bespoke suit is impeccable, custom-tailored to his frame.

His eyes—so similar to Aria’s in color but utterly different in warmth—widen fractionally at the sight of me. The only tell in his otherwise perfect composure.

“Aria, darling.” He steps forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then his gaze shifts to me, assessment as tangible as a physical touch. “I wasn’t aware you were bringing a guest.”

The words are neutral, but the undercurrent isn’t. This is a man unaccustomed to surprises.

“Dad, you remember Jon, from Guardian HRS?” Aria’s voice carries just the right amount of casual lightness. “He’s part of Delta team that—well, you know.”

“Of course.” Marcus extends his hand. His grip is firm, calibrated to convey strength without becoming a contest. “Mr. Knutt. I wasn’t expecting to see you again under such—pleasant circumstances.”

“Life is full of surprises, Mr. Holbrook.” I match his pressure exactly.

A flicker of something—amusement? Irritation?—crosses his features. “Indeed, it is. Please, join us.”

He gestures to the table, where a third place setting has already appeared as if by magic. The server who arranged it vanishes with the same silent efficiency.

I pull out Aria’s chair, a small gesture that doesn’t escape Marcus’s notice. His eyes narrow fractionally as he retakes his seat.

“I must say, your timing is fortuitous.” Marcus signals to the sommelier hovering nearby. “I was just telling Aria about some security concerns regarding our latest venture.”

Our latest venture.Not “Aria’s shop” or “the candle business.” Ours. The distinction speaks volumes.

“Oh?” I accept the wine list with a nod to the sommelier, then pass it directly to Marcus. His territory, his rules—for now.

“The Château Margaux 2015,” he tells the sommelier without consulting the list. “And bring the Krug Grande Cuvée for my daughter. She prefers champagne.”

I glance at Aria, catching the slight tightening around her eyes. A small rebellion forms before I can think better of it.

“Actually,” I address the sommelier directly, “Ms. Holbrook was telling me how much she enjoyed the Caymus Special Selection last time. Perhaps that instead?”

Marcus’s eyebrow rises a fraction of an inch. The sommelier freezes, caught between conflicting authorities.

“The Caymus would be perfect.” Aria’s eyes sparkle, and the tiniest smile curves the corners of her lips. “Thank you, Jon, for remembering.”

Score a point for Aria. Marcus inclines his head in gracious defeat, though something calculative enters his gaze as he studies me with renewed interest.

“Very well,” he tells the sommelier. “The Caymus for my daughter and her—friend. The Margaux for me.”