Chapter 16 In the Quiet Moments #2
She hesitated. Her heartbeat a steady thunder in her ears.
Fuck. What the hell am I doing?
But the way he watched her, steady and without judgment, made it okay to open her mouth. To try.
She wet her lips with another slow drink. The bourbon braced her.
“I never talk about this.” His silence gave her permission to keep going.
“My father was the most dangerous kind of man,” she said, voice steady, though rough at the edges. “The kind who thought nothing could touch him. He dealt drugs, not just to survive, but because he was hooked on what he sold.”
She stared into her drink, the light catching in slow, smoky spirals.
“That place, whatever it was, it never felt like home. It was a revolving door for hollow eyes and desperate hands. I learned early how to disappear, how to stay small and unnoticed, but…”
She met his gaze.
“It didn’t always work.”
Gideon didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
“One of them. Someone I should’ve been able to trust. He confirmed every fear. He wasn’t a stranger. He was close. Too close.”
Her voice cracked but didn’t break. “He waited until we were alone. Didn’t leave bruises. No evidence. But he left a mark I couldn’t scrub off.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
“I froze. My mind just… went blank. And after, I hated myself for it. For not screaming. For not fighting. For letting him make me feel like I was nothing. And it wasn’t rape, not technically. But it was a violation. Of trust. Of safety. Of everything.”
The quiet wrapped around them—not with judgment, but room to breathe.
“I never told anyone. What would I have said? That someone touched me wrong? That I was scared all the time? There was no proof. How do you explain the way you tense every time someone moves too close? Or how you live waiting for it to happen again?”
She let out a shaky breath, holding the edges of her voice together by force.
“My grandparents were the only light in that house. My granddad’s arm on my shoulders, my grandma’s laugh echoing through the kitchen. They gave me something to hold onto. But when they died, that was taken from me too.”
She set the glass down, hands trembling.
“After that, I thought if I could just be perfect, it would keep me safe. Perfect grades. Perfect silence. Perfect obedience. But it never mattered. He always found something to punish. Some perceived wrongdoing. And the worst part wasn’t the punishment, but the waiting for it.
The silence that came before the next blow, the next storm. ”
Her voice softened, laced with something bitter.
“My mother… she wasn’t a mother. She was a shell. Every breath she took was for him. She waited on him like he was some god. Like keeping him happy was the only thing keeping us alive.”
Arden swallowed hard.
“I used to think she’d wake up. That every time he went to jail, she’d take that as a sign to finally leave. But she never did. She called it love. I called it survival. And eventually, I realized I had to choose one or the other.”
She looked up. The glassy sheen in her eyes didn’t dull their fire.
“So I walked away. I cut ties. I left it all behind. And people say that’s selfish. That I abandoned my family. But it wasn’t selfish.”
Her voice sharpened.
“It was necessary. Because if I’d stayed, it wouldn’t have been just my life I gave up. It would’ve been everything that made me.”
Gideon leaned closer, his words anchored. “You didn’t deserve any of that. Not the fear. Not the silence. Not the betrayal.”
She blinked, those words slicing straight through whatever armor she had left.
“Arden, you’ve faced worse than most ever will, and you’re here. Still standing. Still burning.”
She looked at him—this man who didn’t see someone broken. He saw fire. Not fracture.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For listening. For not flinching.”
He covered her hand with his own, solid and grounding. “I’m right here.”
Arden spoke into the hush, her voice low.
“And you?” she murmured, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder. “What are you carrying?”
His expression shifted. Shadows moved across his face like storm clouds gathering.
He didn’t speak right away. Not out of reluctance, but with the care of someone who’d learned the cost of truth.
“The weight of a family who sees worth as a transaction,” he said finally. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “Who only keep you close when there’s something to gain.”
Something sharp tugged in her chest. Not pity. Recognition. “That sounds lonely.”
“It is,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
His thumb brushed hers as he let go. Slowed for a second, then moved on.
“But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”
The moment held. Quiet. Honest.
And in it, she saw something familiar: not just pain, but persistence. The kind of resilience that doesn’t need to shout to be real.
She reached out slowly, fingers brushing against his, more instinct than decision.
The silence between them wasn’t empty.
It felt full.
With his hand in hers, doubt slid in beneath the warmth.
What if I’m wrong?
That one question cracked the door.
Others slipped through in its wake.
What if I’m not seeing everything?
What if hope is just another kind of lie?
She swallowed hard. The past pressed close, sharp as broken glass.
And then softer this time, fragile but defiant.
What if I’m not wrong?
What if I jump and it feels like flying?
What if he’s the one who catches me?
Gideon’s touch moved across her hand, slow and sure, as if he could read every silent war she was fighting. As if he were holding the line with her.
When he spoke, his voice was a quiet anchor. “I’m staying right here.” No doubt. No flinch.
And for once, she didn’t doubt it. Didn’t armor against it.
She just… believed.
Outside, the city moved on. But in that quiet pocket, her hand stayed in his.
?
The rest of the night blurred into something soft and unrushed.
They didn’t talk much after that; not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence felt full enough without words.
Gideon stayed close without crowding, his hand resting lightly against the back of her chair; a tether she didn’t want to question.
Arden finished her bourbon slowly, letting the warmth settle in her chest; letting it fight the old chill that never seemed to leave completely.
When she finally stood, he rose too; easy and unthinking, as if gravity itself pulled him toward her.
Neither of them spoke as they left the lounge; moving side by side through the sleeping hush of The Blackwell Room. The chandeliers were dim now, their reflections dulled and uneven across the marble. The air held the soft bite of whiskey, and maybe a hint of lemon polish lingering in the corners.
At the door, Arden paused—one hand on the latch, keys loose in the other.
Gideon didn’t push; he waited.
And that was the thing that undid her most of all.
She turned back, heart beating harder than she liked; and for a second, she thought about reaching for him.
About closing the last inch between them.
Instead, she offered a small smile; quiet, tired, real.
“Goodnight, Blackwell.”
His lips curved slightly. “Goodnight, Rivers.”
Their names held a different weight now; she heard it in the way he said hers.
Something he wasn't ready to put down.
Neither was she.
The door clicked shut behind her with a hush of finality; but the night felt unfinished.
Something had been set into motion, quiet and certain, too heavy to stop now.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and the old scars that still ached when she breathed too deep, something else stirred.
Something that felt, terrifyingly, like hope.