Page 92 of Rescuing Aria
“There’s more,” Wolfe promises, his smile cruel. “So much more, Marcus. Shall we discuss the bruises her maid documented? The ‘accidents’ that always seemed to happen when Rebecca spoke of leaving you?”
The recording continues, my mother’s voice growing more desperate. “If anything happens to me, promise you’ll watch over Aria. Marcus will try to control her like he controls me. Don’t let him break her.”
The blood drains from my face. These words—my mother’s voice—shatter something fundamental in my understanding of my childhood. The expensive schools, the security details, the careful monitoring of my friends… Protection or control?
The girl’s eyes lift, watching me with something like recognition. Perhaps she sees in me what my mother once was—another beautiful possession in a gilded cage.
The crystal chandeliers suddenly seem too bright, the room too small. Every luxury around us—the hand-painted china, thesterling silver cutlery, the priceless artwork on the walls—all of it built on suffering. My mother’s. This girl’s. How many others?
The scent of expensive perfume mingles with the aroma of food neither of us will eat. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes nine times, the sound echoing through marble hallways. The girl shifts her weight, a barely perceptible movement that speaks volumes about how long she’s been standing.
My gaze returns to the photographs of my mother—her smile, her obvious love for the younger Wolfe. I try to reconcile that joyful woman with the reserved, anxious mother I remember. The mother who flinched at loud noises. Who checked my father’s schedule obsessively. Who taught me to be perfect, quiet, unobtrusive—to avoid his moods.
“Why this elaborate setup?” I ask, forcing strength into my voice. “Why the dinner theatrics?”
“Because you deserve to know the truth,” Wolfe answers, something almost human flickering across his features. “About who your father is. About what happened to your mother.”
A terrible suspicion begins to form.The “accident” that took my mother—a fall down the stairs. The closed-casket funeral. The way my father controlled the narrative so completely.
I look at my father, searching for denial, for outrage at these accusations. Instead, I see calculation in his eyes—assessing how much I believe, how to spin this, how to maintain control of the situation—of me.
And for the first time, I wonder if I’ve been living with a monster all these years.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jon
Blood pounds in my temples.Not fear—focus.
My wrists burn where the restraints bite into my skin. The thought of Aria alone with Wolfe sends something primal clawing up my spine. I force it down. Emotion is a luxury I can’t afford.
“Family reunion,”Wolfe said.Tonight. The words twist in my gut like a knife.
I work methodically at the right restraint. Seventeen minutes of silent, controlled movements. The sedative hasn’t fully cleared my system, making each twist of my wrist require double the concentration. Blood slicks the metal as I work the padding, creating just enough space.
I dislocate my thumb. There’s no alternative. White-hot pain explodes up my arm. My teeth clench against it, jaw muscles bunching. One smooth pull, and my right hand slips free.
With my free hand, the remaining restraints take seconds to release. The hidden pressure points give way easily when attacked from the outside.
Standing sends the room tilting. I breathe through it, riding the vertigo until it subsides. The concrete floor is ice against my bare feet.
The crystal decanter Wolfe left. I drink, washing away the chemical taste lingering in my mouth. Water. Not drugged—he wouldn’t bother. He thinks the restraints are enough.
His mistake.
The antique leather chair he brought specially catches my eye. Symbol of his arrogance. I strip off my bloodied shirt, wrap it around my fist, and strike the chair where the wooden frame is weakest. The crack seems deafening in the silent room. Three more strikes and I have what I need—a foot-long metal support rod with a jagged end.
Now the waiting. I position myself in the blind spot beneath the northwest camera and go still. Heart rate sixty-two beats per minute. Breathing shallow and silent.
The guards rotate every thirty minutes.
Minutes stretch. My muscles remain loose, ready. The lock finally disengages with a soft click.
A guard steps in, hand resting casually on his holstered weapon. His eyes track to the empty chair, the bloody restraints. Pupils dilate. Breathing accelerates. He reaches for his radio.
Too late.
I drive the metal bar into the side of his knee. Cartilage tears with a wet sound. As he drops, a strangled cry catches in his throat. My hand clamps over his mouth, driving him backward. The taser from his belt is in my hand before his back hits the floor.
