Page 99 of Rescuing Aria
“You don’t understand the complexity—” he begins.
“I understand perfectly,” I interrupt. “You built your empire on suffering. Just like Wolfe.” I turn to Wolfe. “You’re both monsters. Just different kinds.”
Wolfe inclines his head, accepting the assessment with unexpected grace. “The difference, Aria, is that I’ve never pretended to be anything else. I traffic in human beings—a crime I don’t deny, but those I sell survive the transaction.” His gaze hardens as he looks at my father. “I don’t murder them for parts.”
The casual way he acknowledges his crimes sends a chill through me. The nameless girl stands perfectly still in hercorner, her expression carefully blank at this discussion of people like her—people sold and bought like commodities.
“And my mother discovered this?” I connect the pieces. “That’s why she died?” I hesitate to saykilled,although I wonder now.
“She knew too much,” Wolfe confirms. “Was ready to expose everything.”
“You have no proof I was involved,” my father says, but his voice has changed—harder, colder. The mask isn’t just slipping now; it’s been discarded entirely.
“Don’t I?” Wolfe produces a final envelope. “Rebecca sent me this the day before she died. Insurance, she called it.”
He removes a handwritten letter, yellowed with age, and begins to read: “Marcus knows I’ve found the files. He threatened me tonight—said no one would believe ‘a mentally unstable woman’ over a respected businessman. Said arrangements could be made for my ‘care’ that would ensure I never saw Aria again. I’m afraid, Damien. If anything happens to me, it won’t be an accident, no matter what he claims.”
My father’s breathing changes, becoming shallow and rapid. His eyes dart to the door, calculating escape like a cornered animal.
“You killed her,” I whisper, the truth finally crystallizing. “You killed my mother.”
“She was going to destroy everything,” my father snarls, abandoning pretense entirely. “Take you away. Ruin the company. Thousands of lives saved, medical advancements that changed the world—and she was ready to burn it all down over some worthless donors who would have died in poverty anyway.”
The confession hangs in the air, stark and terrible. The nameless girl’s eyes widen, her hand flying to her mouth in shock at his admission.
“She was hysterical,” he continues, voice rising. “Unstable. The medication was just supposed to calm her, make her manageable until I could arrange more permanent care. How was I to know her heart would stop, or that she would trip?”
The coldness in his voice—the complete absence of remorse—is more terrifying than rage would be. This is the real Marcus Holbrook: calculating, ruthless, seeing people only as means to his ends.
“So you didn’t mean to kill her,” Wolfe says softly. “Just drug her into compliance. Make her ‘manageable.’ Lock her away from her daughter. That’s so much better, isn’t it?”
The sarcasm cuts, but my father doesn’t flinch.
“You could never understand what I’ve built,” he says, chin lifting with the arrogance I’ve seen in a thousand business negotiations. “The lives saved. The advancements made. A few hundred worthless donors against thousands of valuable lives extended. The mathematics is simple.”
“Worthless?” I repeat, the word like ash in my mouth. “You think some lives are worthless?”
His gaze shifts to me, calculating even now. “Don’t be naive, Aria. Of course they are. Society has always made these calculations—we just don’t speak of them in polite company. A beggar in Bangladesh or a brain surgeon in Boston? Which life matters more? I simply acted on what everyone knows but won’t admit.”
The girl against the wall has gone completely pale, likely recognizing that in my father’s worldview, she falls firmly into the “worthless” category. Disposable. A means to an end.
“And my mother?” I ask, voice shaking. “Was she worthless too, in the end?”
Something flickers in his eyes—not remorse, but irritation. “Rebecca became a liability. She chose that path.”
“By discovering what you really are,” I say softly.
His expression hardens. “By betraying me. By threatening everything I built. By running back to him.” He jerks his head toward Wolfe. “After everything I gave her—security, luxury, position—she was going to throw it all away. Take you away.”
“To protect me from you,” I realize.
My father’s laugh is bitter. “To turn you against me. To poison you with her weakness, her sentimentality.” His gaze sharpens. “But I raised you better than that, didn’t I? You understand what it takes to build something that matters. The necessary sacrifices.”
The confidence in his voice—the certainty that I share his monstrous worldview—turns my stomach. Have I been complicit all these years? Benefiting from suffering I chose not to see? I don’t think so, but I’ve certainly benefited from his crimes.
“I understand exactly what you are now,” I say, each word deliberate. “What you’ve done. What you’ve built on the bodies of people you deemed expendable.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ve never minded the benefits of my work. The lifestyle. The security. The opportunities.”
