Page 117 of Rescuing Aria
I breathe Aria in—lavender and warmth—and something inside me settles. Something that’s been restless since Charlie and Brett left.
They were right.
This is worth everything.
And for once, the future doesn’t feel like a liability.
It feels like coming home.
THIRTY-TWO
Aria
Black doesn’t suit me.I know this with the certainty of someone raised to analyze every fabric, cut, and color against skin tone and social context. My father made sure I understood the importance of appearance from a young age.
Image is reality, he would say.The world sees what you show them.
Now, I stand before the mirror in funeral black, the dark fabric washing out my complexion, making me look as hollow as I feel. The dress is a designer piece, perfectly tailored, exactly what Marcus would have chosen for this occasion.
Perhaps that’s why I hate it so much.
“You don’t have to go.” Jon leans against the doorframe of my bedroom, watch already on his wrist, suit pressed to perfection.
“Yes, I do.” I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt. “The world is watching. Image is reality.”
The words taste bitter, echoes of Marcus’s endless lessons in the management ofperception is reality. But he wasn’t wrong about everything. The media is circling, waiting for the grievingdaughter to make an appearance—or conspicuously avoid one. Either way, they’ll craft a narrative I can’t control.
At least this way, I maintain the illusion of choice.
“Whatever you decide, I’m with you.” Jon steps behind me, his reflection appearing in the mirror beside mine. His hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the fabric of my dress.
The simple certainty in his voice steadies me. Jon doesn’t deal in manipulation or calculation. What you see is exactly what you get—a man of his word, solid as bedrock.
The opposite of the father I will bury.
“Thank you.” I lean slightly into his touch, drawing strength from the connection. “I need to see this through. For me, not for him.”
Jon nods, understanding what I mean without further explanation. Closure requires a witness. Without seeing the casket lowered into the ground, some part of me might always wonder if Marcus is truly gone.
If the monster wearing my father’s face is really dead.
“The car’s waiting downstairs.” Jon’s hand slides around to my waist, turning me gently to face him. “Ready?”
No. Not even close. But I nod anyway, reaching for the folder that hasn’t left my sight in three days. The one containing the truth about Marcus, about my mother, about the family legacy built on blood and lies.
“Leave it here.” Jon’s hand covers mine, stopping me from taking it.
“But—”
“Today is about burial and closure.” His eyes hold mine, steady and certain. “The past will still be here when you get back.”
He’s right, of course. Carrying physical evidence of Marcus’s crimes to his funeral would be both unnecessary and unwise.The media would notice, questions would follow, and the carefully crafted narrative would unravel before I’m ready to deal with the fallout.
“Let’s go.” I release the folder, squaring my shoulders.
The cemetery gleams with old money and careful landscaping. Marble angels and granite monuments stretch across manicured lawns, and the elite of generations are laid to rest with appropriate grandeur. The Holbrook family plot occupies prime real estate near the center, naturally. Even in death, Marcus secured the best position, the most prestigious address.
I stand beside the polished casket, Jon a silent presence at my shoulder. Around us gather the expected crowd—business associates, political connections, social elite.
