The envelope arrived without a return address.
Off-white. Handwritten. No branding. No seal.

Just one word across the front:

Dominic.

He stared at it for a long time before opening it.

Inside, a single card.

Minimal.

Two words printed at the center:

You're invited.

And below that, a time, a date, and coordinates.

Not to a hotel.
Not to a gala.
Not to a courtroom.

To a space he hadn’t stepped inside since Aria left him standing at the edge of everything they’d burned down.

The studio.

The one he gave her without fanfare. Quietly. Finally.

That evening, Dominic pulled up to the building under low clouds and fading sunlight.

He didn’t know what he’d find.

Forgiveness?

Closure?

Nothing?

He didn’t expect to hear music inside. Soft. Ambient. Hopeful.

He didn’t expect to see lights on. Desks filled. Sketches scattered across walls. A chalkboard with rough product ideas and passionate scribbles in a dozen different hands.

And at the center of it all—

Aria.

Hair tied back. Sleeves rolled. Laughing at something a young designer just said.

She didn’t notice him right away.

But when she did, everything slowed.

She stepped toward him. Calm. Grounded. Changed.

“I got your letter,” he said.

She nodded. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“You knew I would.”

She let a small smile curl. “I hoped you’d come as you. Not as the fixer. Not as the Blackwood name.”

“I left that outside.”

“Good.”

They stood there a moment. Nothing between them but breath and history.

“Why now?” he asked.

“Because this space isn’t about me anymore,” she said. “It’s about building something that lives beyond one name. And I want you to see it. Not own it. Not shape it. Just witness it.”

He nodded, slower than usual.

“I can do that.”

She gestured to a nearby table. “There’s an empty seat. It’s not for you, specifically. But tonight? You can borrow it.”

He followed her in.

Sat down among the energy and the noise and the future.

And for once, Dominic Blackwood didn’t command the room.

He belonged to it.