Page 89 of Rescuing Aria
I want to scream. I want to burn Wolfe’s empire to ash and drag him through the ruins.
But I stay still. I don’t speak. I don’t reach for her.
Because even kindness might feel like danger.
She smooths the zipper with shaking fingers. Her eyes never rise.
And I swear, whatever it takes, I’ll make sure no one ever makes her flinch again.
“Has he hurt you?” The question is unnecessary; the answer is written in every careful movement she makes.
She doesn’t respond, focusing instead on preparing the blue dress. As I step into it, the silk slides cool against my skin, and I fight a shudder. It fits perfectly—of course it does. The thought of Wolfe knowing my measurements makes my skin crawl.
The girl works silently, fastening closures and adjusting the fabric. When she steps back, she studies me with an odd expression.
“What is it?”
She shakes her head slightly. “You look like her. The woman in the photograph. In his study.”
“My mother,” I confirm softly.
She nods, then moves to the vanity, gesturing for me to sit. As she begins arranging my hair, her fingers work with surprising skill. For someone so damaged, her touch holds surprising tenderness.
“Did you know her?” I ask, watching her reflection in the mirror.
“No.” She pins a section of my hair, recreating an updo I recognize from my mother’s photos. “But he talks to her picture sometimes. When he drinks.”
My throat tightens. “What does he say?”
“That he should have fought for her.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, then dart away. “That he should have saved her from him.”
“From who?”
“Your father.” She secures the final pin. “Mr. Wolfe says your father stole her. That he destroyed her.”
Before I can respond, the door swings open. Wolfe stands in the threshold, immaculate in a tailored black suit. His eyes sweep over me, satisfaction and something darker flickering in their depths.
“Perfect,” he says, gaze lingering on the dress. “Rebecca would be proud.”
The casual use of my mother’s name in his mouth sends a surge of anger through me. I rise from the vanity, squaring my shoulders. “What do you want from me?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just dinner, Aria. Afamilydinner. Truth and all that comes from it.” He extends his arm. “Your father is waiting.”
I hesitate, glancing back at the girl who stands with her head bowed, hands clasped before her.
“The girl will join us,” Wolfe adds, catching my concern. “I insist.”
The girl’s shoulders tense, but she follows silently as Wolfe leads me through corridors lined with artwork worth more than most people’s homes. The juxtaposition is jarring—such beauty in a place built on suffering.
We descend a grand staircase into a dining room pulled from some warped fairy tale.
Gleaming mahogany stretches the length of the room, set for three with polished silver and blood-red crystal. Chandeliers drip prisms of fractured light across gleaming floors, casting shimmering ghosts that dance between us. A fire snaps behind a carved stone hearth—too ornate, too controlled, like everything in this house.
At the far end of the table sits my father.
His hands are bound to the arms of a high-backed chair, thick leather straps pulled taut. A bruise blooms over his leftcheekbone—angry, fresh—but his posture remains unbowed. Chin lifted. Spine ramrod straight. The same unflappable force that presides over Fortune 500 boardrooms and black-tie galas. Even now, blood drying at his temple, he radiates power.
“Aria, my darling,” His voice cracks—not from weakness, but sheer relief. “Are you hurt?”
