Page 102 of Rescuing Aria
“Protect me?” I laugh, the sound brittle in the opulent room. “Like you protected my mother?”
His face contorts. “Your mother was weak. Sentimental. She would have destroyed everything I built—everything that would have been your legacy.”
“My legacy?” I repeat, revulsion rising like bile. “Built on suffering? On exploitation? On murder?”
“Built on vision,” he snaps. “On understanding that progress requires sacrifice. That greatness demands difficult choices.” He leans forward against his restraints. “Do you think the world’s advancements come without cost? That medical breakthroughs appear by magic? Someone always pays the price. I simply ensured it wasn’t us.”
The clinical coldness in his voice sends a chill down my spine. This is my father stripped of pretense—the ruthless calculator who sees human lives as entries on a balance sheet.
“So you admit it,” I say quietly. “Everything Wolfe said about your business. About what happened to my mother.”
Something shifts in his expression—a recognition that he’s said too much, revealed too much—but instead of retreating behind his mask, something darker emerges. If he can’t reclaim control through manipulation, perhaps force will serve.
“What I admit,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous register, “is that I’ve built something extraordinary. Something that has saved thousands of lives that matter.” His emphasis on the last word is deliberate, cutting. “And I won’t apologize for the methods required.”
“And my mother?” I press. “Did she deserve to die for threatening your precious company?”
His jaw tightens. “Rebecca made her choice when she betrayed me. When she ran to him.” His eyes shoot daggers at Wolfe. “When she threatened to destroy everything with her misguided morality.”
“So you killed her.” The words hang in the air between us.
For a moment, I think he’ll deny it. Instead, his expression hardens with a terrible resolve.
“I did what was necessary,” he says coldly.
No remorse colors his voice, only irritation at an unforeseen complication. “An unfortunate escalation, but the result was the same. The company was protected. You were protected.”
The casual admission steals my breath. The dining room seems to contract around us, the ornate wallpaper closing in, the crystal chandelier light harsh and accusing. My father—the man who raised me, who I spent my life trying to please—just admitted to killing my mother as if discussing a business merger that had unexpected complications.
“Protected? Is that what you call it? Keeping me ignorant? Controlling every aspect of my life? Ensuring I became exactly what you wanted?”
“I gave you everything,” he says, genuine bewilderment in his tone that I’m not grateful. “The best education. Every advantage. A legacy that will endure for generations.”
“A legacy built on blood,” I counter.
“Don’t be melodramatic.” His face darkens. “It’s unbecoming.”
“Unbecoming,” I repeat, a hysterical laugh threatening. “My father admits to killing my mother, to building his empire on the deaths of countless ‘worthless’ people, and I’m being ‘unbecoming’ by opening my eyes and seeing you for who you really are?”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. The restraints on his chair creak as he strains against them.
“You’ve been corrupted.” His voice rises. “First by Rebecca’s weakness, now by Damien’s manipulations. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” I echo, finding strength in my growing rage. “You don’t get to ‘allow’ anything anymore. Not with me.”
His expression transforms into something I’ve never seen before—a raw, primal fury that erases all traces of the controlled businessman I’ve known my entire life.
“You aremydaughter,” he snarls. “Mine!Not his. Never his. Everything you are, everything you have, comes fromme.”
The possessiveness in his voice is terrifying. Not love—ownership. I realize with sudden clarity that I’ve never been his child. I’ve been his possession. His creation. His legacy.
“Maybe biologically,” I acknowledge, my voice steadier than I feel. “But in every way that matters, I am not your daughter. Not anymore. You’re dead to me.”
Something snaps in him. With a roar, he throws his weight sideways, toppling the heavy chair. The restraints loosen as the chair arm cracks against the marble floor. Before anyone can react, he frees one hand, then the other.
The nameless girl shrinks back against the wall, terror etched across her face. Wolfe rises swiftly, but he’s too slow. My father lunges across the table, crystal and silver scattering in his wake.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” he snarls, lunging for me with hands outstretched. “After everything I’ve done for you?—”
