Page 83 of Rescuing Aria
“And my father?”
“Marcus is another matter.” Something flickers across his face—too fast to identify.
The hesitation tells me more than the words. Whatever “truth” Wolfe wants to reveal, it centers on my father.
“Why am I here?” I set down the brush, turning fully to face him. “If this is about money?—”
“This has never been about money.” He cuts me off, voice hardening briefly before he controls it. “Please, sit. This conversation will be easier if we’re both comfortable.”
I remain standing. Small defiances matter in captivity—I learned that the first time.
He sighs, then moves to sit in an armchair near the window. The morning light catches his profile, highlighting the bone structure that mirrors my father’s. He’s not an unattractive man. Some might call him beautiful. Handsome even.
I struggle to categorize my thoughts and feelings about this man.
“I understand your reluctance.” He crosses one leg over the other, the picture of relaxed confidence. “But I’m not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite.”
“Kidnapping is a strange way to show concern for another person, and this is thesecondtime you’ve taken me.”
“I prefer to think of this time as a family reunion. It’s long overdue, and I apologize for the first kidnapping. My intent wasn’t to cause you any harm.” His lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“And yet, you did.”
“A necessary inconvenience, and you have my apologies, butthisis a family matter.”
“We’re not family.” The words come automatically, reflexively.
“Are you certain of that?” He studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly.
“What do you want from me?” A chill runs through me despite the room’s warmth.
“I want you to know the truth.” He leans forward, intensity bleeding through his composed exterior. “About who you are. About who Marcus is. About what happened to your mother.”
“My mother died when I was eight. It was an accident.” My mouth goes dry.
I remember standing in my father’s study, clutching my stuffed rabbit while he delivered the news in that clipped, clinical tone he used for boardroom briefings.“A tragic fall,”he said.“Quick. Painless. Nothing anyone could have done.”
No comfort. No visible grief. Just sterile words designed to close the door before I could even step through it.
When I asked how it happened—why she’d been walking down the stairs so late, or why no one heard her fall—he cut me off.“It’s time to move forward, Aria.”That tone. The one that made further questions feel like a threat.
Her funeral was closed casket. Her photos vanished from the walls within a week. Her name dissolved into silence like it had never existed.
Even then, something felt—off. The way the house went still around him. The way I learned to stop wondering.
It was easier that way.
Safer.
“Is that what he told you?” There’s genuine curiosity in his voice, as if my answer matters to him.
“That’s what happened.” But even to my own ears, the words sound hollow, uncertain.
“Sit, Aria.” His tone gentles. “Please. This isn’t a conversation to have standing.”
Against my better judgment, I perch on the edge of the bed, as far from him as possible while still in conversational range. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I keep my expression neutral. Another skill learned at Marcus Holbrook’s dinner table.
“Many years ago,” Wolfe begins, “I loved a woman named Rebecca Price.”
