Beg For It

ARDEN'S POV Rain has a way of making old ghosts louder. Maybe it’s the way it slides down windows like time itself is dripping away. Or maybe it’s because, on nights like this, you can’t help but remember other storms. The ones that came before everything fell apart. I was standing at the front counter of my event studio, going over invoices, when I saw him. Rhett Maddox. Even his name still had weight in my chest. He was leaning against the doorway like he had all the right in the world to be there, dripping water onto my polished concrete floors, wearing that same reckless smirk I remembered from five years ago—except now it was sharper, more calculated. His dark hair was wet from the rain, strands falling over his forehead in a way that made my fingers twitch with a memory I had no business revisiting. For a moment, I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I thought maybe I was imagining him, some cruel trick my brain decided to play after a long day. But no. He was real. Real enough

ARDENThe day of the fundraiser walk-through arrived like a tidal wave—unstoppable, inevitable. The morning light filtered through the windows of Crimson with a soft gold glow that almost felt ironic, considering the electric tension charging the air between Rhett and me.We arrived together. Not by design—just practical. He drove, and the lines on his forehead softened every time I glanced at his profile, but I kept my eyes fixed on the city's skyline. The river below shimmered like rivulets of light, and the world beyond those walls felt infinite and reckless—the opposite of me.Inside, Crimson’s foyer was empty except for us, and the silence swallowed me whole. I’d seen this place a thousand times through rose-tinted glasses in my plans and sketches, but walking in now—beside Rhett—made it feel raw and vulnerable.He cleared his throat. “So you still like the shape of the space?”I glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. “Still?“Still,” he repeated, softening. “You can’t unsee it.”I f

ARDENI hadn’t slept.It wasn’t just Rhett’s voice echoing in my head—or the way his presence seemed to stir something restless in me—but the look in his eyes when he left the gallery yesterday. Like he still carried the weight of us, tucked beneath that calm, curated confidence.But the truth was, I didn’t know who Rhett Maddox was anymore. And maybe I didn’t want to find out.I stood in the gallery’s main hall, clipboard in hand, watching sunlight stretch across the hardwood floors. It was calm in here—too calm. The kind that gives your thoughts too much room to wander.Behind me, the front door creaked open.“Arden?”I turned, half-expecting Rhett, which was ridiculous. But instead, it was Ava—my best friend, and the only person in this world who knew the real version of me, scars and all. She carried two iced coffees and wore her usual oversized sunglasses like armor.“You look like hell,” she said, handing me a cup.“Thanks. It’s the new stress-chic aesthetic.”She snorted and lea

ARDENI woke to an echo. Not the kind from a distant canyon, but that faint, almost imperceptible reverberation that lingers inside you—like your heart beating too loud in an empty room.I stared at the ceiling for a long moment, fingernails digging into the sheet as I tried to ground myself. Snippets of last night jogged through my mind: Damien’s warning smile, Rhett’s quiet glance, the fundraiser deck lying between us like the fragile promise of a future.My chest tightened. I knew what I had to do.By 8 a.m., I was pacing through the gallery, coffee in hand, while Lila hovered with a tray of pastries. A wave of absurd guilt made me want another cup of strong caffeine.“You okay?” Lila asked gently.“Functioning,” I said, unsnapping the sleeves of my blazer. “Just… processing.”She blinked at me like she wanted to ask more, but a knock interrupted—Rhett at the door, looking unexpectedly hesitant.My heart pounded despite myself.He slipped inside, offering a thin smile. “Morning.”“M

ARDENThe gallery’s quiet hum settled around me like a heartbeat, steady but anxious. It was the morning after our visit to my father. Though I hadn’t slept much, I was here early—earlier than usual, even for me. My hands were already smudged with graphite from sketching layout concepts, and my eyes were red-rimmed from too much screen time and not enough blinking. But I needed this. The movement. The focus. The illusion of control.The art fundraiser was only four days away now.The pressure was a silent drumbeat. Expectations mounted from the board, the sponsors, the press. Even my mother, though she wouldn’t say it aloud, watched from the sidelines with hopeful eyes. And Rhett… he was always around now. Not hovering, not invasive. But there. Solid. Watching me in that way that made me feel seen and dissected all at once.The night before, after the conversation with my father, he had dropped me off without saying much. But he didn’t need to. The silence between us had softened. Like