Page 88 of Rescuing Aria
She flinches at the direct question, eyes darting up to meet mine before quickly returning to the floor. In that brief connection, I see exhaustion etched into features too young for such weariness.
“I don’t have one.” Her fingers twist in the fabric of her dress. “Mr. Wolfe calls me ‘girl.’”
Something cold slides down my spine. “Everyone has a name.”
“I had one. Before.” She moves to the closet and opens it. “Mr. Wolfe says names are for people, not property.”
The clinical way she says it—like reciting a fact about the weather—makes my stomach clench. I’ve heard about Wolfe’s operation from Jon and the Guardian files. Human trafficking. But seeing this girl, hearing the empty acceptance in her voice, makes the horror visceral in a way statistics never could.
“How long have you been here?” I approach slowly, afraid of startling the girl.
Her hands pause on a hanger. “Three years, four months, two weeks.” The precision of her answer speaks volumes. She’s counting.
Still tracking time. Still hoping.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I say it as if it’s something I can accomplish, but how am I going to free her? I need Jon. I can’t do this alone. Where is he? What has Wolfe done to him?
Is he being held? Tortured? Is he already dead?
My hand flies to my chest. I’d feel it, wouldn’t I? If Jon were dead?
For the first time, something flickers in her eyes—not quite hope, but the ghost of it. “That’s what the last girl said too.” She pulls a dress from the closet, and the sight of it punches the air from my lungs.
Azure blue silk, with a sweetheart neckline and delicate beading along the bodice. An exact replica of the dress my mother wore in the photographs on my father’s desk. The dress she was wearing the night she met him, according to the story he’s told countless times.
“He wants you to wear this.” The girl holds it out, and I can’t help but take a step back.
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “I won’t.”
“Please.” Fear threads through her whisper. “He’ll punish me if you refuse.”
Our eyes meet, and something unspoken passes between us. She nods once, slow, but her posture doesn’t change—shoulders still tucked tight, spine drawn inward like she’s trying to disappear.
Her body tells the truth that Wolfe would rather hide.
Faint scars ring her wrists, pale ridges that speak of restraint—not once, but often.
A fading bruise shadows the curve of her collarbone, yellow blooming into green beneath the neckline of her dress.
It makes me sick. Not just the marks, but the quiet way she wears them. As if she believes she earned them.
“Alright,” I whisper, bile thick in my throat. “I’ll wear it.”
Relief flickers across her face—too fleeting, too cautious to be real comfort. She moves behind me, hands trembling as she reaches for the zipper at my back.
I lift my arms to gather my hair.
She flinches.
Not a subtle twitch, not a blink. She jerks away, body recoiling like a dog bracing for the belt. Her breath stutters. Her hands fly up, defensive, before she catches herself—before shame and submission fold her back into place.
My chest tightens like it’s collapsing inward.
She thought I was going to hit her.
That motion—so simple, so thoughtless—read as a threat in her world. A raised hand equals pain.
Always.
