Chapter 22 Naima
NAIMA
Six months had passed since Lennox came back—six months since the truth cracked us open and love, somehow, found its way through the fracture.
The ache had softened into something steadier—still pulsing with passion, but rooted now in truth.
The retreat was on blackout week—no guests, no classes—just time for the staff to rest, reset, and prepare for the fall sessions. The cabins sat quiet in the early light, and the stillness felt like a deep exhale after months of hosting.
I woke to dawn curling through the windows, the scent of cedar and cool mountain air drifting in. Beside me, Lennox slept on his stomach, one hand splayed over my waist like he was holding the world in place.
Even in sleep, he looked carved from sunlight—light brown skin, golden-bronze locs scattered across the pillow, lashes brushing his cheeks, lips parted just enough to steal my breath. The faint glint of amber in his eyes would catch me later, when he woke, and I’d fall again—like always.
I slipped from the bed, careful not to wake him, and padded to the kitchen, my red amethyst pendant cool against my skin, grounding me the way it always did.
Outside, the mountains stretched wide and endless, painted in russet and gold. The silence was soft but alive—wind through pine, the creek humming low, a few birds calling in the distance.
By the time the kettle whistled, Lennox stirred.
“Morning, Goldie,” I teased as he stepped onto the deck barefoot, hair wild from sleep, body warm and muscled and impossible to ignore.
He grinned, voice rough with sleep. “You always up before the sun.”
“Someone has to make sure this place keeps breathing,” I said, handing him a mug. “Besides, it’s blackout week. Perfect time to reflect.”
He wrapped an arm around me from behind, his chest pressed to my back, heartbeat steady against mine. “Reflecting, huh? That what you call it?”
“Mmhmm.” I smiled. “Grateful is all.”
“Better?” he asked quietly.
“Better,” I said, meaning every syllable. “We’re better.”
He kissed the crown of my head. “We worked for it.”
We had. Therapy sessions with Selena, art journaling with Tasha, nights where silence pressed heavy before truth finally broke through. Piece by piece, we rebuilt what almost fractured beyond repair.
But healing doesn’t erase memory—it just teaches it how to breathe.
He shifted then, pulling a folded envelope from the counter. “Oh—before I forget. This came by courier yesterday.”
I took it from him, brow raised. Heavy cream paper, black wax seal shaped like a rose gleaming in the morning light.
“What is this?”
“Some kind of invitation,” he said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “No return address. Hand-delivered. I figured we’d open it together.”
Curiosity flickered. I broke the seal.
You are cordially invited to Hallow Noir
An evening of masquerade and mystery
October 25 · The Williams Estate · Allegheny County
Dress: Gothic Elegance
Theme: Reimagine your story
Hand-delivered by request of Hansel & Gretel Noir
I blinked. “This looks… exclusive.”
“It is,” he said. “Invite-only. My father mentioned it once.”
“Alan?” I looked up, surprised. “You think he’s behind this?”
He hesitated, a faint smirk curving one corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be the first time he pulled strings I didn’t ask for. He called last night, actually. Wants me to come into the city this weekend.”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “For what?”
“Said it’s been too long since we sat down as a family. Micah and Cairo will be there too.”
The words settled between us. His father’s name alone still carried weight. The man who once tried to buy his way into the retreat, who saw everything—including me—as part of an equation that could turn profit.
It had taken everything in Lennox to draw a line.
He reached for my hand, reading what I didn’t say. “It’s not like before,” he murmured. “He’s… different now. Softer.”
I wanted to believe him. And maybe I did. But I also knew how power lingered in the bones of men like Alan Gold, even after they’d sworn they’d changed.
I smiled anyway, brushing my thumb over the embossed rose on the invitation. “Then maybe this is his olive branch.”
“Maybe,” Lennox said, voice low. “Or his way of pulling me back toward his world for a minute. Either way, I’ll go. See what it’s about.”
He said it lightly, but I felt the echo of that other life pressing at the edges. The one with suits, mergers, and closed doors.
I helped him pack later that morning, folding his shirts with careful hands, pretending not to notice the ache settling under my ribs. I told myself it was fine—just a visit, just a weekend—but the thought of the city calling him home again left something hollow in my chest.
What if he left and the quiet here stopped feeling like home to him? What if his father’s world, polished and familiar, whispered louder than mine ever could?
I said none of it.
Instead, I tucked a note into his bag, small and simple: Remember to listen for the hum.
When he kissed me goodbye, I pressed my palm against his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. “Drive safe,” I said softly.
He smiled. “You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”
But I would.
Because even when the mountains were full of song, it was his laughter that made the silence feel like home.