6.BETWEEN RUIN AND RESOLVE

ARDEN

I woke to dull gray light seeping through my curtains. The kind of light that feels heavy, as if the clouds were intentionally staying close to watch me stumble under my own thoughts.

I lay still for longer than usual, confined beneath memories I couldn’t fully escape. The taste of his coffee, his voice—I could retrace every fragment of him like geographic coordinates tattooed into my brain.

Finally, I sat up. The bed was cold, quiet, like I’d been waiting for someone who didn’t come. Outside, the world pressed on—cars, distant laughter, the urgent hum of life tumbling ahead while I struggled to catch up.

I made coffee, because that’s what the versions of me who survived always did. Then I opened my laptop, fingers hovering over emails that all seemed to demand: pay attention, Arden. Pay attention, or good sense slips too fast down your fingers.

My schedule for the fundraiser was full of checkboxes and timelines—payments due, floral designs confirmed, lighting technicians scheduled, food tasting today. Every detail mattered. I’d built this schedule so tightly against the memory of Rhett that even a misstep would define me as someone who allowed softness to unravel her armor.

I rehearsed the rules in my head: No emotional contact. Keep meetings brief. Don’t let charm sidetrack logic.

The phone buzzed. I didn’t answer.

A half-hour later, my assistant, Lila, burst in. “You have a minute?”

Her expression was urgent. “Rhett’s outside.” Then softer: “He says he needs to talk.”

I told her not to let him in.

I didn’t want some cinematic, driveway confession that threw me off balance. Clarity lay in disruption—and half the time that clarity carried a blade.

But it felt like every rule I made dissolved to gas every time his name—or his presence—entered the room.

I followed her outside.

He stood beside his car, jacket hung over his arm. His hair was damp, like he’d run a hand through it just now, maybe to steel himself. I didn’t want to let it affect me, but even from six feet away, he radiated that blend of confidence and quiet need that used to make me give up too easily.

“What do you want?” I asked, voice clipped.

He met my eyes. “I know it’s early, but I finished the donor deck. I thought—maybe you’d want to preview it.”

I looked past him at the building—faded brick, the padlock’s chain still hanging thick. It needed renovation, polishing, a second chance. Painful truth: I couldn’t help but connect it to us.

I sighed. “Fine.” But he didn’t follow.

I looked over my shoulder at Lila watching from the doorway, arms folded.

“Bring it in,” I said, stepping aside.

He nodded and followed carefully, like stepping into a minefield of emotions he wasn’t sure how to navigate.

Inside, I spread the deck on the countertop: a blend of charts, projections, donor bios. He’d mapped out sponsorship tiers, matched them to local businesses and media partnerships. It was sharp, thorough—good. Too good. It would impress the board. Put weight behind our plans.

Still so plot-driven, this project. Always the safest place to stand. I didn’t look at him.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I also—there’s someone here to see you.”

That panic I forbade myself waited just behind my ribs.

“Who?”

He glanced toward the door.

There stood Carter—tight suit, polished voice, eyes that had never glossed over me before.

“Mr. Levesque,” he said. “Says it’s urgent.”

My stomach pitched. Damien Levesque—slime, danger, and unwanted interest all wrapped into one crisp appearance. He’d shown up at Crimson the night before. He’d threatened Rhett. Now, he appears here. I clenched my teeth against him.

“I’m mid-project,” I said, but Rhett cleared his throat.

“He’s not just some business guest,” Rhett said quietly. Tight enough you could smell the edge of protectiveness.

I glanced at him, surprised.

Rhett didn’t say more.

I swallowed.

“Fine.” I called for Carter to invite him in.

Rhett handed me the deck and took a half-step back. Protective. Scared. Everything that threatened me—and part of me wanted him to be.

Thirty seconds later, Damien entered with that careless confidence of men who believe they can afford to step on other people’s lives as compensation for money.

He looked at me, smiled the wrong kind of smile. I suppressed the urge to step forward.

“Ms. Blake,” he said. His voice was oily. “Pleasure to meet you again.”

I nodded.

He didn’t waste words. “I have a proposition.”

His booming voice pulled the warm air from the room.

I crossed my arms.

He glanced at the deck. “Sweet investment opportunity. Crimson’s renovation. I’m interested in acquiring a portion.”

I felt Rhett's presence behind me—solid. Was that relief? Or dread?

“This building’s not for sale,” I responded. My voice was calm but firm.

He shrugged. “Can be swayed.”

He turned to Rhett.

“Rhett, right? We should talk. About this city, about rebuilding, about mutual expansion.”

Rhett’s jaw flexed. I felt him step forward. “Ms. Blake didn’t list it for sale,” he said coldly.

Damien raised one eyebrow.

“Oh, we’re tough now,” Damien said, smirk pulling sideways.

I couldn’t stand it—this battle-for-the-building wasteland my heart was trying to avoid.

I cleared my throat. “This fundraiser is about the kids, Mr. Levesque. Not real estate investment.”

He chuckled. “Oh, isn’t everything?”

Rhett’s hand found mine.

The warmth was there.

The healing.

But the tension crackled between us and Damien.

He stood, disinterested. “Call me.”

And he left as quickly as he’d come.

I exhaled.

I might’ve cried.

I let go of Rhett’s hand without meaning to—all reflex, not strategy.

He cleared his throat, stiff as church.

“Sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“I—shouldn’t have let him in.”

“He had a right.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanted it.”

I faced him fully.

“You risked everything for me,” I whispered. For us—again.

He swallowed.

“I just couldn’t look past him walking in and thinking I’d let him take what matters.”

The fundraiser’s deck sat between us like fragile peace.

I slid it toward him.

“Let’s protect what we built,” I said.

Rhett nodded slowly.

Over the next hour, we didn’t speak much, but the silence felt possible.

I made coffee, set it down between us.

Rhett accepted the cup with steady hands.

The details in the deck filled the space between us.

We worked.

Lila returned, sweating with an update.

“We’ve confirmed the band, and the floral estimates are in. Everything’s right where I thought it’d be.”

I nodded, relief fluttering.

Rhett still watched me—near, not close.

“Coffee’s good,” he said.

“Only the strong kind,” I murmured.

He smiled. Careful. Safe.

The door clicked.

Damien returned.

I felt my blood freeze.

He didn’t come inside this time.

“I just wanted to say one thing.” He turned to Rhett. “I’ll be watching.”

That knife twist was low enough to pass for a threat.

Then he was gone.

I looked at Rhett.

“I hate him,” I admitted.

He nodded. “Maybe together?” he offered.

I managed a sad laugh.

“That’s how the past unravels. Stone by stone.”

He didn’t argue.

I opened the deck.

We poured over each line together.

It felt like building again.

But this time, the foundation was sturdy because it was us choosing to rebuild.

Later, closing time, I stood outside with Rhett.

The air smelled faintly of rain and new beginnings.

He said, “You did good today.”

I stepped close.

“And so did you.”

He hesitated.

“Goodnight,” I said.

He nodded.

Then he whispered, “Stay safe.”

I nodded.

He left.

I watched him drive away.

The fundraiser wasn’t just about kids anymore.

It was about redemption.

And maybe—even healing.