Page 82 of Rescuing Aria
And yet…
I glance again at the blue dress hanging in the closet. An exact replica of my mother’s favorite. How would he know that? What else might he know about her that I don’t?
I’ve spent my life in my father’s world. His rules. His expectations. His version of our family history. The candle shop was my first real act of independence, and even that came withstrings attached—my money, but his conditions, his constant reminders of how it reflects on the Holbrook name.
Jon saw through my father almost immediately. I dismissed his concerns as professional paranoia, but now…
The coffee turns bitter on my tongue.
I need to escape. Find Jon. But first, I need information. And Damien Wolfe seems eager to provide it. I don’t know that, but the young girl—young woman—said he wants to speak with me.
The question is whether I’m prepared for what I might learn.
I set down the cup, suddenly cold despite the room’s perfect temperature. My father has always been controlling, demanding, and critical, but he’s still my father. The only family I have.
“It’s time you learned the truth about your father.”
Wolfe’s words echo in my mind, carrying a weight I can’t ignore. There was something in his eyes when he looked at me. Something beyond the satisfaction of a kidnapper. Something almost like—recognition.
I shake off the thought. This is what he wants—to make me doubt, to make me vulnerable. Classic manipulation tactics. I won’t fall for it.
I move to the bathroom, splash more cold water on my face. The woman was right about one thing. I need to gather my strength and clean up. Whatever game Wolfe is playing, I need to be clear-headed to counter it.
The shower controls are intuitive despite their complexity. Hot water pounds against tense muscles, washing away the lingering scent of the sedative gas. I use the provided shampoo—the same brand I use at home, another unsettling detail, and try to focus on practical matters.
The room has no obvious escape routes. The door is secured from the outside. The windows won’t open and are too strong tobreak. I’m at least twenty feet above ground level, with no ledges or nearby trees.
I’ll need to get out of this room. That means either overpowering someone when they enter or convincing them to take me elsewhere. Given the level of security I’ve seen, the latter seems more probable.
Which means I need to play along with whatever Wolfe has planned. At least for now.
I step out of the shower and dry off with the monogrammed towel. My black dress from last night is gone—removed while I was in the bathroom. The message is clear:wear what’s been provided or wear nothing.
I examine the closet options again, deliberately avoiding the blue dress that so resembles my mother’s. Instead, I select black pants and a simple white blouse. Casual but dignified. Clothes, I can move in if an escape opportunity presents itself.
They fit perfectly. Of course they do.
I’m brushing my hair when the door unlocks again. This time, I don’t reach for a weapon. I turn slowly, brush still in hand, composing my features into the mask of calm I’ve perfected at a thousand society functions.
TWENTY-TWO
Aria
Damien Wolfe stepsinto the room.
He’s tall, well-built, with that same confidence that seems genetic in the Holbrook line. His suit is impeccably tailored, navy blue with a subtle striped pattern. He looks more like a CEO than a crime lord, but it’s his eyes that hold me frozen. The exact shade of steel-blue as my father’s.
As mine.
“Good morning, Aria.” His voice carries the faintest trace of an accent I can’t place. “I trust you slept well, all things considered.”
I say nothing, just watch him, and catalog the details. The way he stands—weight evenly distributed, ready to move in any direction. Military training or something similar. The watch on his left wrist—Patek Philippe, understated wealth. The St. Christopher medal partially visible beneath his collar—unexpected religiosity from a man who traffics children.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt your meal.” He gestures to the breakfast tray.
“Where is Jon?” I keep my voice level.
“Mr. Knutt is unharmed.” He moves further into the room, maintaining a respectful distance. “I have no quarrel with Guardian HRS personnel. They’re simply doing their job.”
