18. Jon
EIGHTEEN
Jon
Mastro’s gleams like a polished gem in the evening light, all sleek lines and understated luxury. The kind of restaurant where the menu has no prices because if you need to ask, you can’t afford it. The kind of place where Marcus Holbrook is undoubtedly a regular.
“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 Chateau 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.”
The brief power play settles, leaving charged silence in its wake. Marcus breaks it smoothly, turning to business like a shark returning to familiar waters.
“As I was saying, our expansion plans for The Little Matchstick Girl present certain security considerations. The increased inventory alone will require upgraded systems.”
“Expansion plans?” I keep my tone neutral, though Aria’s sudden tension beside me speaks volumes.
“Dad.” Aria sets her napkin down with deliberate care. “We haven’t finalized anything yet. Ember and I are still discussing options.”
Marcus waves a dismissive hand. “Details, darling. The direction is clear. Miranda’s projections show the growth potential is too significant to ignore.”
“Miranda?” I glance at Aria.
“My father’s business consultant.” Her voice carries a tightness I’ve rarely heard. “She’s been running numbers.”
“At my request,” Marcus adds smoothly. “And her findings are quite compelling. We’re looking at potential national distribution within eighteen months.”
We again. Aria’s fingers curl around her water glass, knuckles whitening slightly.
“That’s an aggressive timeline.” I glance at Aria, wondering how hard I can push. She asked me here for a reason, and I’ve got her back. “Especially for an artisanal product.”
“That’s precisely what makes it such an attractive opportunity.” Marcus leans forward, his intensity palpable. “The artisanal narrative provides excellent marketing leverage. Consumers love a good story—the street girl made good, the handcrafted touch. It differentiates in a crowded market.”
The street girl made good. Ember reduced to a marketing angle. I catch the flash of anger in Aria’s eyes before she masks it.
“Ember isn’t a narrative, Dad.” Her voice remains level, controlled. “And her candles aren’t mass-market products.”
“Not yet.” Marcus’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But with the right scaling strategies, proper quality control protocols?—”
“The hand-crafting is the quality control.” Aria sets her glass down with just enough force to create a small sound. “That’s the entire point.”
“Darling, I understand the emotional attachment.” Marcus’s expression softens into something patronizing. “It’s charming, really, but business is business. Sentiment makes for poor strategy.”
The sommelier returns with our wines, creating a brief respite in the tension. As he pours, I study Marcus Holbrook more carefully. This isn’t just a controlling father. This is a man who genuinely cannot conceive of a world where his vision isn’t the correct one—the only one.
The sommelier returns, and I accept the wine he pours, taking a moment to taste it properly. Marcus watches the ritual with barely concealed impatience.
“Mr. Holbrook.” I wait until the sommelier retreats. “Having seen The Little Matchstick Girl’s operations firsthand, I can tell you what makes it special is precisely what makes it difficult to scale. The craftsmanship, the personal touch—these aren’t just marketing angles. They’re the product.”
“You seem unusually informed about candle making, Mr. Knutt.” Marcus’s gaze shifts to me, reassessing.
“Jon has been very supportive of the business.” Aria’s hand finds mine under the table, a silent thank you. “He understands what we’re trying to build.”
“Does he?” Marcus’s eyes drop to where our hands have disappeared, though the tablecloth hides the actual contact. His expression remains pleasant, but something sharp enters his gaze. “How—involved have you become with my daughter’s venture, Mr. Knutt?”
The double meaning hangs in the air between us. Before I can respond, a server appears with our appetizers—small plates of artfully arranged seafood.
“I’ve always believed in supporting local businesses.” I meet his gaze directly. “Especially ones with integrity and vision.”
“Admirable.” Marcus samples his dish with appreciation. “Though I wonder if your expertise in security translates well to retail strategy. Different skill sets entirely.”
“You’d be surprised what skills transfer.” I keep my tone light. “Risk assessment, identifying vulnerabilities, distinguishing between actual value and perceived value—these apply in many contexts.”
Marcus’s mouth curves into something not quite a smile. “Indeed. Though in my experience, security professionals tend to focus on threats rather than opportunities. A necessarily limited perspective.”
“Dad.” Aria’s voice carries a warning note. “Jon is here as my guest…”
“Of course, darling.” Marcus dabs his mouth with his napkin. “Merely making conversation. After all, I should get to know your— friends .”
The slight pause before “friends” carries weighted implication. The game is now fully open. He knows. Or at least, he strongly suspects.
“Speaking of friends,” Marcus continues smoothly, “Hampton Greaves was asking after you just the other day. His son Julian is back from London. Perhaps a dinner?”
The suggestion hangs in the air like an expensive trap. Aria stiffens beside me.
“Julian Greaves?” I keep my tone casually curious. “The investment banker?”
“You’re familiar with the Greaves family?” Marcus’s eyes flick to mine, narrowing slightly at my knowledge.