Page 84 of Rescuing Aria
My mother’s maiden name. A name I’ve rarely heard spoken aloud.
“We were going to build a life together.” His gaze shifts to the window. “Until Marcus took her from me.”
“That’s not—” I stop myself. What do I know about my parents’ courtship?
Nothing but the sanitized version my father occasionally referenced. They met at a charity function. A whirlwind romance. Society’s perfect couple.
“Your father is not the man you believe him to be.” Wolfe’s eyes return to mine, searching. “And neither am I.”
“You’re a criminal.” The words come out sharper than intended. “You traffic children. You kidnapped me and intended to sell me to the highest bidder. I think I know more than enough to formulate an opinion about you.”
“Is that what you’ve been told?” Pain flashes across his features, genuine and raw.
“Told? It’s what happened. It’s what you are.” But an unwelcome uncertainty creeps in.
“Marcus always excelled at controlling narratives.” He rises slowly and moves to the closet. “Just as he’s controlled you your entire life. I was never going to sell you…”
He stands, crosses the space, and removes the blue dress from the closet, holding it with unexpected reverence.
“Your mother wore a dress like this the day I told her I loved her. A picnic in Golden Gate Park. She made sandwiches with the crusts cut off because she didn’t like crusts and said it made thingsfancy.”
The specificity of the memory catches me off guard. This isn’t information he could have researched. This is personal knowledge and intimate details.
“She hated crusts,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. “She always cut them off my sandwiches too.”
His smile turns genuine for the first time. “She would sing while she made them. Fleetwood Mac. Dreams.”
Another detail that rings true. My earliest memories include my mother singing that song as she moved around the kitchen.
“How do you know these things?” My voice sounds small, even to me.
“Because I knew your mother.” He carefully returns the dress to the closet. “Better than Marcus ever did. And she knew me.”
I want to dismiss his words as manipulation, but they’ve found purchase in soil I didn’t know was fertile—longstanding questions about my mother, about her death, about the strange emptiness that always existed in my father’s carefully constructed world.
“What do you want from me?” I ask again, but the question now holds a different meaning.
“I want you to listen.” He moves toward the door. “I want you to ask questions. I want you to decide for yourself what’s true.”
“What have you done with Jon? With my father?”
“Interesting that you ask about the Guardian over your father. He’s special to you.”
“Will you use that against me?”
“I will use what I need to do what must be done, but all in good time.” He pauses at the threshold. “Rest today. Think aboutwhat I’ve said. Tonight, I’ll show you evidence that will change everything you know about your family.”
“I want to see Jon.” I stand, finding strength in concern for someone else. “I need to know he’s safe.”
“Your loyalty does you credit.” Wolfe studies me, something like approval warming his gaze. “He’s not injured, merely—inconvenienced; but I’ll consider your request.”
The door opens, revealing a guard outside, professional security rather than the tattooed thugs from the previous kidnapping.
“One more thing,” Wolfe says. “The blue dress. Your mother made it herself. The pattern was French lilac—her favorite flower. Marcus always told people it was roses.”
The door closes before I can respond, lock engaging with an audible click.
I sink back onto the bed, mind racing with implications I’m not ready to face. My hands tremble as I reach for the coffee cup, now cold.
