Chapter 3 Kyra
Chapter three
Kyra
The black sedan arrives at exactly two o'clock. No friendly family driver with casual conversation, and more importantly, no Aaron. Just a silent man in an expensive suit who takes my luggage without a word and holds the door open like I'm royalty instead of a heartbroken college student.
"Where's Aaron?" I ask before getting in.
"Mr. Aaron Strickland asked me to tell you he's driving up separately," the driver says, his tone neutral. "Last-minute Christmas shopping that couldn't wait. He'll meet you at the cabin."
I open my mouth to ask more questions, but the driver has already closed the door and moved to the driver's seat. I lean forward when he gets in.
"Did Aaron tell you when he'd arrive? I'd like to know what to expect."
The driver's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror before looking away. "Mr. Strickland didn't specify. I only know what I was instructed to tell you."
Something in his measured response makes my skin prickle. I pull out my phone and tap Aaron's contact. The call connects, rings once, twice, then goes straight to voicemail—as if he declined the call.
Are you really coming? Please be honest with me. I text instead.
The message shows as delivered but not read. I wait five minutes, then try again.
If you've changed your mind about us, just tell me. Don't make me drive all the way up here for nothing.
This message also delivers without being read. I try calling one more time, and again it rings twice before disconnecting.
"Reception gets spotty as we head into the mountains," the driver comments, though I haven't said anything. "Mr. Strickland mentioned you might try to reach his son. Best to wait until you're at the cabin—there's a landline and satellite internet."
I nod but don't put my phone away. Instead, I pull up my recent call list and tap on Beth's contact. It rings a full six times before going to voicemail. So my phone is working fine. It's Aaron who's avoiding me.
The leather interior smells like money. I feel out of place in my worn jeans and practical winter coat. This is Victor's world—quiet luxury that makes my secondhand everything feel shabby.
The gifts I've wrapped sit beside me on the seat—a limited edition vinyl of Aaron's favorite band that I'd found at a secondhand record store, a bottle of mid-range scotch for Victor as a thank-you for his hospitality, and a silver ornament engraved with this year's date that I'd hoped would become the first in a collection of "our Christmases together. "
Now the gifts feel pathetic. Evidence of dreams that might already be dead.
As the car leaves Boulder behind and begins climbing into the mountains, my mind drifts back to a family dinner at the Strickland estate one year ago.
***
"Medical research should be funded based on impact, not profitability," Victor said, swirling whiskey in his crystal tumbler as he watched me across the table.
We were alone in the dining room, Aaron having excused himself to take a call. It was the third time that evening he'd left me alone with his father.
"That's easier said than done," I replied, trying to sound casual despite Victor's intense gaze. "Grant committees want guaranteed results, and pharmaceutical companies want patents."
"Money solves most problems." Victor leaned forward. "With the right backing, your research could advance years ahead of schedule."
The way he said "your research"—not medical research in general, but mine specifically—sent warmth flooding through me.
"Are you offering to fund my work, Mr. Strickland?" I asked, my joking tone falling flat against his serious expression.
"Victor," he corrected. "And I might be. I'm always interested in promising investments."
The word "investments" lingered between us, weighted with implications.
"My research is just one small piece of a much larger puzzle," I said, looking down at my dessert. "There are many scientists more deserving of funding."
"I disagree." His voice dropped lower. "You have a unique perspective. A personal motivation that drives you beyond academic curiosity."
My head snapped up. "How do you know about my parents?"
Victor's smile was slight but satisfied. "I make it my business to know about important people in my life, Kyra."
Not "in my son's life." In his life.
Before I could respond, he stood and moved to the sideboard where a decanter waited. "More wine?"
"No, thank you." I was acutely aware of him behind me, his presence radiating heat.
"You're different from Aaron's previous girlfriends," he said, his voice closer than I expected. When I turned, he was standing just inches away. "More substantial."
"Substantial," I repeated, unable to look away. "That sounds like a polite way of calling me boring."
"Far from it." His hand moved to brush a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered at my temple, then traced down to my jaw. "I find you fascinating."
It was then I noticed it—a tattoo on his right hand, partially visible beneath his shirt cuff. A rose with delicate petals and thorns.
"I like your tattoo," I said. "I wouldn't have expected you to have one."
Victor glanced down at his hand, something unreadable flashing in his eyes before his lips curved into a smile.
"Thank you," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Roses are my favorite flower. Beautiful but dangerous—the thorns are there for a reason."
The moment stretched between us. I knew I should step back, but I stood frozen as Victor's thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.
"You have..." His voice roughened. "A bit of chocolate. Just there."
The touch was intimate and thrilling in ways I didn't want to acknowledge. I gasped, and I saw something flash in Victor's eyes—recognition, satisfaction, hunger.
"Dad? Kyra?" Aaron's voice from the hallway broke the moment.
Victor stepped back smoothly, the charged moment disappearing behind his practiced smile. But as Aaron entered the room, I caught Victor looking at me, his right hand absently tracing the rose tattoo with his thumb, his expression promising this wasn't the end.
***
"Miss? We're losing signal now."
The driver's voice pulls me back to the present. The car is climbing higher into the mountains, snow beginning to fall in thick, fat flakes that blur the windshield between wiper strokes.
"You should make any necessary calls now," he continues. "Once we're past this ridge, there's no service until the cabin, and even there it's spotty at best."
I glance at my phone—one bar of service remaining. On impulse, I call Kayla instead of trying Aaron again.
"Hey, it's me," I say when she answers. "Just checking in about that place on your couch if things don't—"
"I'm really sorry," she interrupts, her voice oddly rushed. "My mom's situation got worse. I'm actually at the hospital right now and can't talk. I'll call you—"
The call drops abruptly, cutting her off mid-sentence. When I look at my screen, the service bars have disappeared entirely, replaced by "No Service."
"How much longer until we reach the cabin?" I ask, pressing for more information.
"About forty minutes," he replies. "The roads get rough from here, especially with the snow. Mr. Strickland warned me to drive carefully with you aboard."
The phrasing makes me uncomfortable. "With me aboard?"
"Mr. Strickland is protective of his guests," the driver says smoothly. "Especially when weather conditions are less than ideal."
"And Aaron? Did he mention when Aaron would arrive?"
The driver's eyes meet mine in the mirror again, holding for a beat longer than necessary. "Mr. Strickland only discussed your arrival, miss. I don't have any information about Mr. Aaron's schedule."
Something in his careful avoidance makes my unease grow. Victor had been specific about my arrival but not about his son's? That seems odd, even if Aaron is making his own way to the cabin.
The car turns onto a narrower road, snow-covered pines crowding in on both sides. The isolation is becoming absolute, the outside world disappearing behind curtains of white.
"You should know," the driver says after several minutes of silence, "that cell service and internet can be unpredictable at the cabin. Mr. Strickland likes his privacy. Sometimes the satellite connection goes down for days during storms."
"Days?" I repeat, alarm rising. "But there must be a landline, right?"
"There is," he confirms. "But it's connected through the same system. When one goes, they all go."
"So we could be completely cut off?" I try to keep my voice steady.
"It rarely happens," he assures me, though his tone lacks conviction. "And Mr. Strickland is well-prepared for any contingency. The cabin is fully stocked for an extended stay."
An extended stay. The words echo in my mind. What if this isn't just about Christmas? What if the "emergency building inspection" takes longer than expected? What if my research funding doesn't come through when school resumes?
What if I have nowhere to go back to?
The thought should terrify me. Instead, a treacherous part of me feels relief. No more struggling to make rent. No more choosing between textbooks and groceries. No more pretending I'm not drowning in debt while trying to keep up with Aaron's wealthy friends.
But at what cost?
I reach into my bag and pull out the acceptance letter I'd received just before everything fell apart—the Werner Fellowship that would have covered my final year of medical school.
Now the program has been suspended, the funding redirected, my faculty advisor suddenly transferred across the country.
Every door closing simultaneously, every option disappearing, until all that's left is this—a mountain cabin owned by a man who makes me feel things I shouldn't.
"We're here," the driver announces, turning onto a private drive marked by an ornate iron gate. The metalwork is intricate, with subtle "T" monograms worked into the design.
The trees open up to reveal the Strickland family "cabin"—though calling it a cabin is like calling a mansion a house.
The structure rises from the snow-covered clearing like something from a luxury magazine, all glass and wood, with warm light spilling from enormous windows onto the white landscape.
It's beautiful. Imposing. And utterly isolated.
The driveway curves around to the front entrance, and my heart sinks as I see only one car parked under the covered area. Victor's sleek BMW against the pristine snow. No sign of Aaron's red Jeep anywhere.
"Your luggage will be brought in shortly," the driver says, opening my door and extending a gloved hand to help me navigate the snowy steps. "Mr. Strickland is expecting you."
I deliberately leave the gifts on the seat, unwilling to appear presumptuous if Aaron isn't even here. Instead, I grab my purse and a small overnight bag containing essentials.
"When will you be back?" I ask, suddenly desperate to know if the driver—my only connection to the outside world—will be staying.
"I won't be, miss," he says, already walking back toward the car. "Mr. Strickland arranges transportation as needed. But don't worry—he's an excellent host."
And then he's gone, the sedan disappearing down the winding drive, leaving me standing alone on the front steps of a mountain retreat that suddenly feels less like a romantic getaway and more like a trap.
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."