Page 13 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
Before I can knock, the door swings open to reveal Victor himself, and the sight of him steals my breath.
He's dressed casually. Dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that clings to his broad shoulders. But there's nothing casual about the way he looks at me. His steel-gray eyes take in every detail of my appearance with an intensity that makes my skin flush despite the cold. His silver-streaked hair is slightly mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it.
"Kyra." My name sounds different when he says it, weighted with meaning. "You made it."
"I did." I adjust my grip on my overnight bag. "Is Aaron..."
"Come in out of the cold," he says instead of answering, stepping aside to let me pass. "We have a lot to discuss."
I hesitate, looking back at the empty driveway, at the wall of pine trees now obscuring the road completely, at the sky heavy with snowclouds promising more isolation. Every instinct tells me to be cautious, to demand answers about Aaron's whereabouts before stepping over this threshold.
Instead, I make a decision. If Victor Strickland is playing some kind of game, I need to understand the rules. And I won't learn anything standing in the snow.
"Thank you," I say, walking past him into the warmth of the cabin. As I do, I catch a glimpse of movement in one of the upper windows—a curtain falling back into place, as if someone had been watching my arrival. But that's impossible. Victor is here at the door, and according to the driver, we're alone.
The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds final.
I set my overnight bag down on a bench in the entryway and begin removing my coat. As I do, something falls from the bag's side pocket—a silver rose pendant on a thin chain that I've never seen before. It catches the light as it lands on the hardwood floor with a soft clink.
Victor bends to retrieve it before I can, the pendant dangling from his fingers as he examines it. "A beautiful piece," he says, his voice lower than before. "Though I don't recall you wearing silver roses before."
"It's not mine," I say, confused. "I've never seen it before."
Victor smiles, and there's nothing paternal in the expression. "Perhaps it's a sign," he says, holding it out to me. "That this weekend will bring... unexpected gifts."
Chapter four
Victor
Watching Kyra examine the rose pendant in her palm fills me with quiet satisfaction. The confusion in her eyes, the slight tremor in her fingers—every reaction exactly as I anticipated. She has no idea the necklace was placed in her bag during the drive, a small manipulation to set the tone for what's to come.
"This isn't mine," she repeats, looking up at me with those green eyes that have haunted my dreams for three years.
"Perhaps it was meant to find you," I say, taking her coat and hanging it in the closet. "Things have a way of appearing when they're needed."
Her gaze drops to my hand, to the rose tattoo partially visible beneath my watchband, and I see the connection forming in her mind. Good. Let her wonder. Let the mystery pull her deeper.
"Your room is already prepared," I tell her, gesturing toward the grand staircase. "Would you like to settle in before we talk?"
"Actually," she says, pocketing the pendant and straightening her shoulders, "I'd like to know when Aaron is really arriving. Your driver was evasive, and Aaron isn't answering my calls."
Direct. Assertive. This is the fire that drew me to her—the quiet strength beneath the polite exterior. It's also what my son never appreciated.
I pull out my phone, glancing at the blank screen with practiced concern. "He texted earlier about shopping delays. Let me check if there's an update."
I pretend to type, then frown slightly. "Still nothing. The storm might be affecting reception." I pocket the phone before she can see the screen. "Coffee while we wait? Or something stronger?"
"Coffee, please." She follows me to the kitchen, her fingers trailing along the familiar granite countertop. "I've always loved this kitchen. It's exactly what I'd design if I had the budget."
"High praise from someone with your eye for detail," I say, pleased she remembers her previous visits. "I've added a few new touches since you were here last Christmas. The copper pots are new."
She nods, noticing the addition. "They suit the space perfectly."
I don't mention that cooking is also about control—precise measurements, perfect timing, the transformation of raw ingredients into exactly what I want them to be. Just like this weekend will transform Kyra.
***
The needle burned as it etched the rose into my skin, each line a promise I was making to myself. To her.
