14. Aria #2
“What do you mean?” I’m careful to keep my tone neutral and non-pressuring.
Ryn’s fingers trace the edge of a crystal, the repetitive motion seeming to calm her. “I wasn’t… They didn’t…” She takes another breath, deeper this time. “They never touched me. That way.”
Ember and I exchange confused glances. The trafficking ring that had taken Ryn specialized in selling young women to wealthy buyers. We naturally assumed…
“I was supposed to be auctioned.” Ryn’s voice turns flat, matter-of-fact, a defense mechanism I recognize all too well. “High-dollar sale. They keep the merchandise pristine for that kind of transaction.”
The clinical way she refers to herself—merchandise—makes my stomach turn. I’ve spent my life among the ultra-wealthy, have seen the casual objectification of women in those circles, but this is something far darker.
“They told me I’d fetch a premium price because I was…” She looks down at her hands, slender fingers stained with wax and oils. “Because I’ve never been with anyone.”
The revelation settles between us like a stone dropped in still water, ripples of understanding spreading outward. Not horror at abuse suffered, but horror at what almost happened. What would have happened if Guardian HRS hadn’t found her in time.
“I’m eighteen, although they thought I was much younger,” she continues, her voice stronger now. “Most of the other girls were… Younger, that is. The men who buy girls pay extra for firsts.”
The casual brutality of the statement lands hard. I think of my own first time—awkward, fumbling, with a prep-school boyfriend who’d been as nervous as I was. The luxury of that normal experience, which I’d taken for granted, now seems impossibly precious.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, the words hopelessly inadequate. “We shouldn’t have been so flippant.”
“No, really, it’s okay.” Ryn looks up, a small smile ghosting across her face.
“It’s actually—nice. Hearing you talk about choice.
About trust.” She picks up her crystal again, turning it in the light so it catches fire with inner colors.
“Someday, maybe I’ll have that too. With someone who sees me as a person, not a-a thing to be bought. ”
The simple statement, full of quiet hope, brings unexpected tears to my eyes. At eighteen, I’d been focused on college applications and social status. Ryn, at the same age, is rebuilding a life from shattered pieces, finding the courage to hope for something as basic as human connection.
Ember reaches out, squeezing Ryn’s shoulder gently. “You will,” she promises, her voice fierce with conviction. “When you’re ready. On your terms.”
Ryn nods, returning to her work with renewed focus, carefully placing the rose quartz in its wax bed. “So,” she says, the deliberate change of subject clear, “Jon makes you keep your hands above your head?”
“Yes. He did.” The unexpected question startles a laugh from me.
“And you like it?” There’s genuine curiosity in Ryn’s voice, no judgment.
“I do.” The honesty feels like freedom. “I really did.”
“Huh.” She considers this, head tilted thoughtfully. “And Blaze pins you to walls?” This directed at Ember, who grins.
“Among other things.”
“Good to know.” Ryn nods again, absorbing this information with serious consideration.
“For future reference?” Ember asks, a teasing note returning to her voice.
“Maybe.” The smile that crosses Ryn’s face this time is real, if fleeting. “When I’m ready.”
Ember and I retreat to give her space, moving to the small office at the back of the shop. The room smells of paper and ink, with hints of the various candles that have passed through over time. I sink into the chair behind the desk, the gravity of what Ryn shared settling on me.
“I keep forgetting how young she is,” Ember murmurs once we’re out of earshot, leaning against the doorframe. “Not much younger than us, but?—”
“A lifetime of difference. For me, at least.” At twenty-five, I feel ancient compared to Ryn’s eighteen years, though the gap is small in actual time. “And how much she’s been through.”
“She’s remarkably resilient.” Ember’s eyes drift back to where Ryn works, her movements precise and focused.
“Aren’t we all?” I observe, thinking of Ember’s own journey from living on the streets as a kid to a business owner. “Survivors adapt.”
“Some are better than others.” Her smile is wry as she pushes off from the doorframe. “Back to work. Those candles won’t pour themselves.”
The rest of the morning passes in comfortable productivity.
Ember works on a new winter collection, the scents of pine and cinnamon filling the shop.
Ryn meticulously crafts her crystal candles, each one unique and stunning.
I handle customers, review inventory, and finally settle at the desk to tackle the paperwork I’ve been avoiding.
Miranda’s business proposal sits at the top of the stack, my father’s handwritten notes visible in the margins. The heavy cream stationery bears the Holbrook Pharmaceuticals watermark—my father never misses an opportunity to brand himself, even in personal correspondence.
I open the folder and scan the executive summary. The strategy is aggressive—triple production, move to larger commercial space, automated manufacturing, and wider distribution within eighteen months. National presence within three years.
It’s a sound business plan. The projections are realistic, the growth attainable. It would mean significant profit and notable success in the business world my father understands.
It would also mean the end of what makes The Little Matchstick Girl special.
I flip through the pages, noting my father’s annotations in his precise, slanted handwriting. “ Eliminate artisanal processes—inefficient .” “ Outsource crystal work—too labor-intensive .” “ Standardize product line—reduce to 5-7 core offerings .”
Each note feels like a knife to what we’ve built. To what Ember created. To the purpose that has given Ryn a new start.
I close my eyes, remembering the weight of Jon’s body over mine this morning, the security of his arms around me. The way he looked at me when I told him about my father’s expectations.
“You deserve to make your own choices,” Jon’s voice was rough with conviction. “Not his. Yours.”
I glance through the office doorway. Ember stands at her workbench, head bent in concentration as she carefully measures essential oils, testing different combinations.
The tip of her tongue peeks out between her teeth, a sign of intense focus I’ve come to recognize.
Across the room, Ryn places a final crystal in a candle, her face lighting up with quiet satisfaction at the result.
This is the heart of our business. Not efficiency, not standardization, not market share. This is passion, craftsmanship, and a human touch.
I close the folder with a decisive snap. My father’s vision for The Little Matchstick Girl is not our vision.
Pulling out my phone, I compose a text to my father. I type, delete, retype, struggling to find the right balance between respectful and firm:
“Reviewed Miranda’s proposal. Cannot proceed as outlined. Fundamental misalignment with our brand identity and values. Will develop an alternative strategy that preserves the core business while allowing sustainable growth. Can discuss further at dinner Sunday.”
My finger hovers over the send button. This is more than rejecting a business plan.
It’s the first time I’ve directly opposed my father’s vision for my life.
The first real step toward independence, toward becoming the woman Jon sees when he looks at me, capable, strong, worthy of making her own decisions, rather than the child my father sees.
I press send.
The response is almost immediate; my phone buzzing in my hand before I can set it down:
“Unacceptable. My office. 7pm tonight.”
Not a request. A summons, delivered with the expectation of unquestioning obedience.
My stomach tightens with familiar anxiety, the lifetime habit of wanting to please him, to earn his approval. For a moment, I’m eight years old again, standing in his study as he coldly lists my shortcomings.
But beneath that old fear, something new takes root. Determination. Resolve. I think of Ember’s fierce independence, of Ryn’s quiet courage. Of Jon’s faith in me.
I set the phone down without replying. Whatever comes next, I’ve made my choice. For Ember, for the business we’ve built together. For the vision of who I’m becoming.
For myself.