Page 79 of Rescuing Aria
“It’s time you learned the truth about your father…”
Damien Wolfe. The man we believed dead after the last rescue operation. My father’s half-brother. The crime lord who traffics children now wants me to know “the truth.”
I push myself to standing, fighting a wave of dizziness. I need to assess my situation. Find an escape route. Locate Jon.
The room is approximately twenty by twenty feet. Double doors that presumably lead to a hallway. Another door slightly ajar, showing an en-suite bathroom. Two tall windows with a view of pine-covered mountains. Coastal mountains. We’re still in California at least.
I try the main doors first. Locked, as expected. The knob doesn’t even turn. I press my ear against the wood, listening for guards. Nothing.
The windows next. They stretch from floor to ceiling, filling the room with morning light. The view is spectacular—gentle hills rolling toward the distant Pacific. I’m high up, on the second or third floor of a building perched on a hillside. Thewindows are fixed panes. No latches, no way to open them. And the glass, when I tap it, returns a solid, heavy sound. Security glass. Unbreakable without tools.
I sweep the room for surveillance—corners, ceiling edges, recessed panels. If cameras are here, they’re expertly concealed. The ceiling’s too high to reach, even standing on the bed. Whoever designed this space knew exactly how far I could stretch.
The bathroom is another mindfuck. Marble gleams under recessed lighting, accented by gold fixtures so polished they reflect. The floor radiates warmth underfoot. A rainfall shower with digital controls and jets. Everything screams luxury.
But it’s the details that make my stomach knot.
A row of toiletries lines the marble counter—every brand I use, down to the exact vanilla-cedar shampoo I hoard from that boutique in SoHo. The moisturizer I keep in my travel bag. Even the lip balm I reorder compulsively. My scent, my routine.
Monogrammed towels wait beside the sink. A single letter stitched in gold thread:W.
There’s no razor. No scissors. Nothing sharp. Nothing dangerous.
Except the implication.
This isn’t random. This is curated. Customized. Whoever orchestrated this didn’t just want a hostage. They wanted me. Not just the woman I am now, but every version of me. The girl who still texts her housekeeper for skincare refills. The woman who used to leave her straightener on the bathroom counter.
They studied me. Prepared for me.
I splash cold water on my face, hoping to wake up from whatever carefully gilded nightmare this is. The mirror answers with the truth—pale skin, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, hair twisted into knots. I look like hell.
But beneath the wreckage, there’s something new. A tightness around the mouth. A quiet defiance in my eyes.
The socialite who walked into that restaurant last night wouldn’t have lasted here.
But I will.
Back in the bedroom, I notice a closet I missed during my initial sweep. Inside, a selection of clothing hangs in obsessive order. Casual wear, athletic clothes, evening dresses. All in my size. All in styles and colors I would choose for myself.
But one garment stops my breath.
A pale blue wrap dress with a delicate floral pattern. Almost identical to one my mother used to wear. I haven’t seen that dress since I was eight years old, but I remember her wearing it to Sunday brunches, to gallery openings, to afternoons in the garden.
I touch the fabric, a chill racing up my spine. How would Wolfe know about this? The dress isn’t vintage—it’s new, tags still attached. Custom-made to duplicate a twenty-year-old memory.
I yank my hand back as if burned. This goes beyond stalking. Beyond research. This is—personal. Intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“It’s time you learned the truth about your father.”
What truth? What could this monster possibly know about my father that I don’t?
As for my mother and the blue dress, Rebecca Holbrook died when I was eight. One day, she was there, singing off-key in the kitchen, braiding my hair too tightly. The next—gone. Sudden. No explanation, I was old enough to understand, just whispered voices behind closed doors, and a funeral I barely remember.
Closed casket.
My father never spoke of her again. Her photos vanished from the walls. Her name dropped from conversation like itcarried disease. Any time I asked, he redirected.It was a tragedy, darling, let it rest.Eventually, I stopped asking.
I used to think it was grief.
