Chapter 28 A Garden Between Worlds
A Garden Between Worlds
An hour later, Arden climbed the steps of Gideon’s brownstone, the late chill slicing across her skin like a warning she didn’t need. The place wasn’t grand. No sprawling estate, no gleaming monument to the Blackwell name. It was him. Grounded. Intentionally quiet.
Before she could knock, the door opened.
And then, he was there.
Dark jeans. A sweater that didn’t try to make a statement. No designer flash, no sharp tailoring—comfort. A quiet ruggedness. Understated, like he hadn’t dressed to impress, but was disarmingly effective. He looked like the man from the club, but… stripped of the armor.
It threw her for a second.
“I—” she began, but the word barely made it out.
Gideon didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.
One step closed the space between them. His hand settled low on her back, the contact gentle but grounding. Even through the cotton of her shirt, the warmth of him sank deep. Assured. And then his mouth found hers. Not tentative. Not soft.
Firm. Focused. Certain.
The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already knew the answer. One that stirred low and deep, tightened her breath, scattered every thought.
He pulled back slowly, but the look he gave her lingered, heavy and unreadable.
“Hi,” he said, rough-edged, with that low, wreck-your-sanity voice of his.
She blinked, thrown by how fast the air shifted around them. “I thought we were keeping things uncomplicated,” she said, her voice tighter than intended.
Gideon’s lips tugged at the corner. “Turns out I’m not great at uncomplicated.”
Then, he stepped back enough to give her space, letting her decide. Choice. Autonomy. Power.
She stood unmoving for a second then crossed the threshold.
The warmth that met her wasn’t from the radiator or the subtly muted thrum of music. It was in the atmosphere, the subtle lived-in quality of the space. Soap. Something herbal clinging to the air. She felt it in her bones.
Gideon didn’t say much. Just motioned to the staircase with a flick of his chin. “Upstairs.” No push. No pressure.
She followed anyway.
As they reached the second floor, everything shifted—closer, quieter. The scent of rosemary and cedar intensified, rich and familiar. It settled in her chest like memory, though she couldn’t place where or when.
Then the rooftop door opened, and she froze.
Overhead, the string lights swayed in the breeze, haloing the space in gentle gold. Ivy climbed the railing. Terra cotta pots flanked the walls, filled with unruly herbs and clustered blooms. A garden, wild and intimate, tucked into the bones of the city, like it had grown there in secret.
It wasn’t some polished rooftop spread from a lifestyle magazine. It wasn’t perfect. But it was… breathtaking.
A modest wooden table sat off-center, two places set with real plates and folded napkins. Beyond it, the skyline bled into a quiet, moving haze—light, motion, distance.
Her chest drew tight with something she didn’t have a name for.
“This… isn’t what I thought I’d find up here,” she said softly, her gaze moving across the rooftop. “I expected… shinier.”
Gideon stepped up beside her, hands in his pockets. “Something Blackwell?”
She glanced at him sideways. “Definitely not this… it feels like you.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. He didn’t push for a response. Simply let the silence stretch out—quiet and unspoken, hanging there like a held breath.
She looked past him, to the garden. To the city beyond it, veiled in a quiet that felt almost sacred. The hush of it all both settled and twisted inside her.
And her heart, loud and unruly, thudded against her ribs. Something had changed. Not in what was said, but what wasn’t. And that was what scared her most—not the stalker, not the roses, not even the shadows she hadn’t outrun.
It was this.
The open door.
The chance she hadn’t expected.
?
Across the street, Colton leaned into the supple leather of the SUV’s driver’s seat, fingers tapping out some slow, aimless rhythm on the wheel. His eyes didn’t leave the glowing windows.
He didn’t bother hiding it.
Didn’t care if anyone saw.
A billionaire with all the money in the damn world, and the guy was playing house in a brownstone like a middle-class art dealer. Jesus.
Then, he’d seen the kiss.
Seen Arden’s body ease into it, like she wanted that kind of trouble. Amateur move.
He lifted his phone, snapped a photo, and sent it off without ceremony.
Colton: She’s here. They’re comfortable. More than expected.
A pause. Then the reply.
Aunt Evelyn: Keep tabs. I want everything.
Of course, you do, Colton thought, slipping the phone back into his jacket. The picture-perfect moment across the street wouldn’t last. It never did.
And Arden? Sooner or later, she’d crack. They all did.
And when she did, he’d be there. Not to help. To report.
To watch her fall apart, one piece at a time.
?
Dinner wasn’t elaborate; it was beef stew, rich and hearty, ladled from a cast-iron Dutch oven Gideon pulled from a warming tray.
It felt… intimate.
The savory, earthy scent wrapped around them like the soft glow of string lights. Like the city exhaling. Like the warmth of him.
Arden arched a brow as he lifted the lid.
“You’re serving stew?” she teased, half-laugh, half-curiosity. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Gideon laughed under his breath, warm and unbothered, and reached for the wine.
“My grandfather used to make it when I was a kid,” he said, pouring into two glasses. His voice carried a softer edge, shaped by memory. “Said simple food tells the best stories.”
He handed her a glass, lips tugging into a half-smirk. “Also, it’s damn good.”
The version of him she’d built in her mind, the polished and unreachable one, was crumbling. In its place: something quieter. Truer. She studied him. “He sounds like someone worth remembering.”
“He was,” Gideon said, the words quiet.
Then, the flicker of a dry smile. “Can’t say the same for the rest.”
The words hung between them—not bitter, but unfinished. They filled the space with a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just unspoken.
They ate like they’d done it before. No performance. Only presence. A rhythm that didn’t need filling.
A little while later, Gideon set his fork down and leaned back. “This place… it’s not what most people would expect.” His thumb brushed the stem of his wineglass, more a gesture than a thought. “But that’s what I like about it.”
Arden looked up. “Most people?”
He offered the faintest smile. “My family, mostly. They live for legacy and perception. I wanted it to feel like…”
He hesitated, but not because he didn’t know the word. Because the truth of it felt dangerous to say aloud. “Mine.”
Arden lifted her wine. “And does it?”
His eyes moved across the rooftop—the imperfect brick, the tangled string lights, the pots that didn’t match. Something in him eased. “It does now.”
And somehow, so did she.
Conversation flowed after that, unrushed and unfiltered. He talked about the brownstone like it was more than a home. A rebellion. A refusal to play the game on their terms.
And she listened.
For once, Arden didn’t armor up or pivot away. She… let him be.
Her gaze drifted toward a small pot near the terrace edge, where roses bloomed defiantly against the chill. She reached out, fingers brushing the soft edges of a petal.
“They’re lovely,” she murmured.
Gideon followed her gaze.
“They’re stubborn.”
She glanced at him.
“The gardener said they wouldn’t last,” he said with a half-shrug. “I told him to plant them anyway.”
She stilled. Not outwardly, but something inside her held. “My grandmother grew roses,” she said finally, voice quiet. “She used to call me Rose—it’s my middle name.”
Her fingers hovered over the bloom. “I hated it when I was little. But now…” A shallow breath. “I miss how it sounded when she said it.”
It was too much. She felt it the second it left her mouth.
But then—
“Arden Rose.”
Her gaze snapped to his. The way he said it—like claiming something he already owned. The air didn’t just shift. It thickened.
Her chest tightened.
She hated how it sounded in his voice. She hated even more how much she didn’t.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said, cool as ever. Almost.
She threw him a smirk. Quick. Shield raised, but he didn’t take the bait.
Gideon watched her, quiet and unblinking.
And he seemed to see everything.
Every layer. Every lie she told herself about not needing anyone. About being fine on her own.
And for one terrifying, electric second, she wasn’t sure she could look away.
As the night wore on, the noise of the world slipped further away. Up here, none of it could touch them like the city had pressed pause for this.
For the first time in weeks, Arden felt it.
Peace.
No shadows at the edges.
No roses left in her wake.
No phantom footsteps trailing her.
Just… quiet.
Gideon leaned back in his chair, the hard lines of him softened by wine and quiet surrender.
His voice, when it came, was low and thoughtful—raw in a way she wasn’t used to from him.
He spoke of his grandfather, Richard Blackwell II, the man whose legacy clung to the bones of everything they touched.
“He believed in creating a foundation that would last. Something good.” Gideon’s gaze drifted, fingers brushing the rim of his glass, almost absently. “But that dream didn’t survive him. It got swallowed by greed.”
The shift in his tone sharpened the space between them.
“What happened?” Arden asked. No teasing. Genuine concern.
“My father happened. And Evelyn.” The names landed like dead weight. “They took what he built and twisted it—used it to control people. To erase them.”
A bitter smirk flickered and died at the corner of his mouth.
“The Blackwell name used to mean something,” he said. “Now it’s just… leverage.”
His words settled over her, thick and unvarnished. But it wasn’t self-pity.
It was grief.