Chapter 13 Kyra
Chapter thirteen
Kyra
Iwake alone, disoriented by the unfamiliar room. His room. For a moment, I can't remember where I am. Then yesterday's memories return in a rush—Victor's hands on my body, his mouth against my skin, the Christmas tree we decorated together.
A folded note sits on the pillow next to mine, my name written in Victor's precise handwriting. I reach for it, fingers tracing the elegant script before opening it.
Good morning, beautiful girl. I had to take a call in my study. Help yourself to breakfast. I've left research materials on the desk that might interest you. -V
Simple, straightforward, yet the casual domesticity of it creates a strange flutter in my chest. Is this what it would be like to be with Victor? Waking to his notes, sharing his space, living inside the bubble of luxury and attention he's created?
The kitchen shows signs of recent use—a coffee cup in the sink, toast crumbs on the counter. Victor has already eaten and moved on with his day. I find a plate of pastries beneath a glass dome, still warm, with a carafe of coffee beside it. Another note: Eat. You'll need your strength.
The casual command sends a shiver through me, implications clear in the simple directive.
I obey without thinking, selecting a chocolate croissant and pouring coffee into a waiting mug.
The first bite confirms my suspicion—these weren't store-bought but freshly baked.
Either Victor has hidden culinary talents or he arranged delivery at dawn.
Both scenarios seem equally plausible for a man who leaves nothing to chance.
As I eat, I listen for the sounds of Victor in the house.
A distant murmur of his voice comes from upstairs—still on his call, apparently.
The words are indistinct, but his tone carries a hardness I haven't heard before, authoritative in a way that suggests the person on the other end is receiving instructions rather than participating in a conversation.
I finish breakfast and rinse my plate, the domestic gesture feeling strangely intimate in Victor's space.
The Christmas tree we decorated yesterday dominates the great room, twinkling lights reflecting in the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Beneath it sits a small collection of wrapped packages that weren't there last night—red and gold paper with elegant bows.
More evidence of Victor's planning, his attention to detail.
Curious about the research materials he mentioned, I make my way toward the office. The door to his study is closed as I pass, but Victor's voice becomes clearer—sharp, commanding, nothing like the warm tones he uses with me.
"I don't care what it takes," he says, the cold steel in his voice stopping me mid-step. "Make it happen. The funding needs to disappear completely. Make sure he understands the consequences of reconsidering his position."
Funding. McQuillan. The names hit me like physical blows. Professor McQuillan—my research advisor who suddenly transferred across the country. The Werner Fellowship funding that mysteriously evaporated.
I should keep walking. Should respect his privacy. Instead, I find myself rooted to the spot, barely breathing as I listen.
"No, Patrick," Victor continues, unaware of my presence outside his door. "This isn't negotiable. Three years of planning doesn't get compromised because someone has second thoughts."
Three years. The casual mention of the timeframe matches what he told me yesterday—that he's wanted me for three years. But planning what, exactly?
"The apartment evacuation is proceeding on schedule?" A pause. "Good. And her former roommate? Make sure the 'family emergency' continues through the holidays. I need Kyra completely isolated, with no options except me."
My blood turns to ice. Victor orchestrated my apartment evacuation? Created a fake emergency for Jessica so she couldn't offer me her couch? The implications are staggering—and terrifying.
"If Aaron attempts contact again, block it," Victor says, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "The signal jammers at the cabin should prevent any calls from getting through, but I want his phone monitored. If he tries to leave campus, detain him. I don't care how."
Aaron. He's talking about Aaron. His own son. Blocking him from contacting me. Having him monitored. Possibly detained.
"The breakup went exactly as instructed. My son may be weak, but he understands what happens to people who defy me."
What? The air is sucked from my lungs. Victor instructed Aaron to break up with me? Forced him somehow?
"Don't be dramatic, Patrick. I didn't have to actually hurt him. The threat was sufficient." A cold laugh. "He believed me when I explained what would happen if he didn't cooperate. The boy's seen enough over the years to know I don't make idle threats."
I press a hand against the wall to steady myself, the reality of what I'm hearing overwhelming me. Victor threatened Aaron. Forced him to end our relationship. And has been systematically dismantling every aspect of my life—my research funding, my housing, my support system.
But why? To what end?
As if in answer to my unspoken question, Victor continues, "By Christmas Eve, she'll be completely mine. Three years of waiting, Patrick. Three years of watching, planning, creating the perfect scenario where she has no choice but to turn to me."
The memory of our first meeting flashes through my mind—my twentieth birthday party at the Strickland estate, Victor's study, the way his fingers lingered against my skin when he tucked hair behind my ear.
"The cabin is the perfect setting," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone.
"Isolated, controlled, every detail designed to make her dependent on me.
By the time we return, she'll be too compromised, too attached to leave.
She'll convince herself it was her choice, never understanding she never had one. "
Never had a choice. The words echo in my head as the full horror of my situation becomes clear. Victor has been orchestrating my downfall for years, eliminating every option except him, creating the perfect trap—and I walked right into it.
"I have to go," he says abruptly. "She's probably finished breakfast by now. I've left research materials to keep her occupied, but I don't want to leave her alone too long. Not yet. Not until she's fully conditioned."
Conditioned. Like an experiment. Like an animal being trained to respond to its master.
I back away from the door on trembling legs, desperate to get away before he emerges.
I need time to process what I've heard, to figure out what to do.
Quickly, silently, I retreat down the hallway toward the office.
I need to appear normal, engaged with the research materials, giving no hint that I've overheard his conversation.
I slip into the office and close the door behind me, leaning against it as my legs threaten to give way.
My breath comes in shallow gasps, my heart pounding so hard I'm certain it must be audible.
Victor orchestrated everything—Aaron's breakup, my academic catastrophes, my housing crisis—all to bring me to this isolated cabin where I'd have no choice but to depend on him.
The research materials sit on the desk just as his note promised—academic journals open to articles on cardiac regeneration, a laptop with access to research databases my university could never afford.
In any other context, these resources would be a dream come true.
Now they're just another part of his elaborate trap.
I force myself to sit at the desk, to open one of the journals with hands that won't stop trembling. I need to appear engaged, normal, when Victor comes looking for me. Need to hide the fact that I now know exactly what he's done, what he's planning.
The journal blurs before my eyes as I try to make sense of what I've learned.
Victor has been watching me for three years—since I was twenty, since I first started dating Aaron.
He's orchestrated the systematic dismantling of my life to bring me to this exact moment, this exact place.
And I played right into his hands, accepting his invitation, coming to this isolated cabin, surrendering to him completely.
I called him Daddy.
The memory sends a wave of nausea through me. I let him touch me, pleasure me, control me—all while believing I was making a choice when in reality, he'd eliminated every other option.
I hear his study door open, footsteps moving down the hallway. I quickly compose my expression, pull a notepad toward me, jot down what appear to be research notes while my mind races with the implications of what I've discovered.
"Ah, there you are." Victor's voice is warm, affectionate—the voice of the man who held me yesterday, who praised me as I came apart under his touch.
Not the man who's been orchestrating my downfall for three years.
Not the man who threatened his own son to isolate me.
"I see you found the research materials. "
I force myself to turn, to smile, to meet his eyes as if I haven't just discovered the monster beneath the sophisticated exterior. "Yes, thank you. The access to these journals is incredible."
He leans against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled up, revealing those tattoos I now understand are not fashion statements but markers of a violent past. "Find anything useful for your project?"
"Potentially," I manage, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "There's a new approach to cardiac regeneration using modified stem cells that might align with my research."
"Excellent." He moves behind me, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. Every instinct screams to pull away, to run, but I remain still as his thumbs trace circles at the base of my neck. "I have more materials coming. Journals, data sets, resources your university could never provide."