Page 103 of Rescuing Aria
I stumble backward, my chair toppling as I scramble away from his rage. The chandelier light fractures across shattered crystal on the floor, each shard reflecting his contorted features as he advances.
Wolfe intercepts him, catching him mid-lunge. Despite their age, both men are powerful, driven by decades of hatred. They crash into the sideboard, expensive china shattering around them.
My father breaks free of Wolfe’s grip, shoving him hard against the wall. I hear the sickening crack as Wolfe’s head connects with the ornate molding. Blood streaks the cream-colored paint as Wolfe slides to the floor, momentarily stunned.
My father seizes the advantage, grabbing a heavy crystal decanter from the sideboard. He brings it down against Wolfe’s skull. More blood spatters across the expensive carpet as Wolfe crumples further.
“I should have ended you years ago.” My father raises the decanter for another blow.
The scene freezes my blood. My father stands over Wolfe, who lies crumpled on an antique Persian rug, blood staining the intricate patterns.
“Always the same story, isn’t it, Damien?” my father says conversationally, as if they’re discussing business over brandy. “You want what’s mine. First Rebecca. Now Aria. You never did understand your place.”
Wolfe struggles to push himself upright, blood streaming from a gash on his temple. “Rebecca was never yours,” he manages, voice thick with pain. “Neither is Aria.”
The nameless girl has frozen by the wall, her eyes wide with terror. She’s seen this violence before—lived it. For her, this isn’t shocking; it’s confirmation of the world she already knows.
I need to do something. The girl won’t move—can’t move. She knows what happens to slaves who run. My gaze darts around the room, searching for a weapon, an escape route, anything.
“Goodbye, brother,” my father says. “This time, I’ll ensure the job is finished properly.”
My father strikes Wolfe again, the decanter coming down with brutal force. Wolfe’s body goes limp, blood pooling beneath his head. Whether he’s unconscious or dead, I can’t tell.
“Now for you,” my father says, turning toward me. Blood—Wolfe’s blood—spatters his expensive suit, flecks his face. The civilized mask is gone completely, revealing the predator beneath.
I back away, my legs hitting a serving cart. Without thinking, I grab a carving knife from its surface.
“Stay back,” I warn, holding the blade before me.
My father’s laugh is cold, dismissive. “Really? You think you can use that? On me?” He advances, confident in his controlover me—the control he’s cultivated my entire life. “Put it down before you embarrass yourself. This unpleasantness has gone on long enough.”
My hand trembles, but I don’t lower the knife. My entire life has been about pleasing this man, earning his approval, obeying his commands. Breaking that pattern takes everything I have.
“I said stay back,” I repeat.
“This rebellious phase is tedious.” He shakes his head, disappointed. “We’re leaving now. Once we’re home, we’ll discuss your future—away from these—influences.”
He reaches for me, utterly confident I won’t strike. That’s his mistake. As his hand extends, I slash outward with the knife. The blade catches his palm, opening a shallow cut. He jerks back, genuine shock registering on his face.
“You little—” he snarls, looking at the blood welling on his hand. “You’ll regret that.”
His eyes darken with something I’ve never seen directed at me before—the same cold calculation I’ve glimpsed when he discusses business rivals who’ve crossed him. Opponents who later disappeared or were destroyed financially, personally, completely.
I’m no longer his precious daughter. I’m an obstacle. A problem to eliminate.
He lunges again, faster than I expect. The knife clatters from my grip as he seizes my wrist, twisting until pain forces me to my knees.
“I’ve given you everything.” Spittle flies from his lips. His face inches from mine. “And this is how you repay me? With betrayal? With violence?”
His grip tightens, grinding the bones in my wrist. I bite back a cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Behind him, the nameless girl edges toward the fallen knife.
“You’re coming home,” my father says, his voice flat with certainty. “We’ll undo whatever poison Damien has fed you. Whatever weakness he’s cultivated.”
“I’d rather die,” I tell him, meaning it.
Something flickers in his eyes—consideration. “That can be arranged, if necessary.” The casual threat chills me to the bone. “But I prefer rehabilitation. You’re a valuable asset.”
Not a daughter. An asset. The mask has fallen completely now.
