Chapter 5 A World Away #2
Back in her room, the coat hung from the closet door, supple black leather catching faint streaks of light as they filtered through the window.
Arden sat at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on it, though her mind drifted elsewhere.
She reached for the laptop with the same certainty that guided her purchase.
One click. Session booked.
Krav Maga.
Another layer of defense. Another form of control.
Later, Penny’s music wove through the walls, a restless counterpoint to Arden’s racing thoughts.
She folded herself into the couch, shadows flickering across her face.
Her focus slipped.
Training schedules blurred. Logistics faded.
Her fingers found the black card tucked in her wallet.
That damn card. Heavy even in her wallet.
Who the hell made their business card black?
Mysterious. Exclusive. Dangerous.
Maybe pretentious.
But God help her, it worked.
A traitorous smile pulled at her lips as Gideon Blackwell threaded through her thoughts.
Devastating. That was the word.
The kind of sexy that should come with warning labels and liability waivers.
His voice? Warm whiskey. Smooth. Rich.
The kind that slipped past defenses and burned slow.
A voice built to dismantle every boundary she’d constructed.
Literally fuck me now, she’d thought, and hated herself for being every bad cliché she’d ever sworn she wasn’t.
Yet here she was.
Still thinking about it.
About him.
She scrubbed a hand down her face, frustration rough and restless, and shoved the laptop aside.
Jesus. Get it together.
One meeting. One stupidly intense, chemistry-drenched interaction. And she was spiraling?
The black card pulled her attention again. Practically taunting her.
She’d tried digging into The Blackwell Room—articles, forums, social threads.
Nothing.
Mentions in business columns, social gossip: always vague, always curated.
According to Penny, you didn’t apply to work there. You were chosen.
Which made Gideon’s offer even more suspect.
She didn’t belong in his world of old money and power plays.
Penny’s door hinges whined, slicing through Arden’s thoughts.
Penny wandered into the living room barefoot, her hair twisted into a loose, haphazard bun.
She clutched her oversized sketchpad like a security blanket, holding it tight against her petite frame.
With a practiced sprawl, she dropped into the armchair, radiating that uncanny awareness that made Arden brace for impact.
“So,” she said, her tone casual. But Arden caught the intent beneath it. “When exactly are you going to the club?”
Arden’s spine went stiff, shoulders ticking up slightly.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Penny stared. Blinked. Then did that rapid-fire flutter that said oh, we’re definitely talking about this.
She leaned in, brows raised. “Not sure? You’ve got the look, the chops, and me, your personal hype woman. What gives?”
Arden wrapped both hands around the mug. The heat helped. Solid. Steady. But it didn’t loosen the tension coiled low in her gut.
“It’s not like applying anywhere else. A place like that…” Her voice thinned. “It plays by different rules.”
Cue Penny, loading a comeback. “Exactly. Which is why you need to walk in like you invented it. You’re smart, capable, and let’s be honest, you’re more likely to intimidate than be intimidated. They won’t know what hit them.”
Arden stared into her drink. Steam curled upward. She let out a long breath.
That club wasn’t just exclusive; it was prestige. Polished. Veiled. Stitched into the tapestry of the city.
Power didn’t need an introduction. It passed in posture, in silence. Murmured in the way the walls breathed around you.
And men like Gideon? They didn’t just belong; they built it. They were it.
“It’s complicated.”
Quiet. An afterthought.
Penny flipped her sketchpad open, eyes gleaming. She landed on a blank page with a theatrical flick.
“Okay, picture this. You, Arden Rivers, are the kind of woman who rattles the room just by walking into it. And that smoky eye? Absolutely fatal. Gideon Blackwell won’t stand a chance.”
A reluctant flush crept up Arden’s neck. “You’ve got too much faith in me.”
“Nope. Just enough.” Penny grinned, sketching. “But can I ask one thing?”
Arden gave her a look. “Since when has that stopped you?”
“Why is everything you own in grayscale?” Penny gestured with the pencil. “Color exists, you know.”
“Black and gray are timeless,” Arden said with a shrug. “They speak without shouting.”
“They whisper ‘I’m plotting your demise,’ which is on-brand, I’ll give you that. But a little color could throw them off their game. Add some mystery.”
Arden chuckled, genuine and rare. “I’ll consider it.”
“You’d better,” Penny said, flicking her pencil. “Because when you show up with that look, that attitude? They’ll hand you the keys just to keep you from burning it all down.”
Arden tilted her head, catching something softer beneath Penny’s smile. Joking aside, she meant every word.
“I’ll figure it out,” Arden murmured, her voice low but steady.
“I know,” Penny replied, settling back like the scene was unfolding in her mind. “And I can’t wait to see it happen.”
Arden let the weight of those words sink in. Penny’s confidence was a kind of pressure: a lit match handed to someone made of dry tinder.
She reached for her wallet, knowing exactly what lay inside.
The black card lay inside, sleek and quiet, but dense with implication.
The Blackwell Room.
Even the name felt like a dare.
And Gideon?
His name was temptation, waiting to be answered.
Her gaze flicked to the window. A sliver of her reflection stared back. Sharper. Steadier. Harder to ignore.
The kind of woman who didn’t just survive. She planned. She struck.
Music filtered through the walls again, low and pulsating; the tempo threaded possibility into the silence.
Outside, streetlights shimmered across the leather curve of her new coat.
Maybe caution had overstayed its welcome.
Maybe it was time to walk into fire and see who flinched first.