24. Aria
TWENTY-FOUR
Aria
The soft knock at the door barely registers. I’m still cataloging my surroundings: heavy damask curtains over windows that don’t open, antique furniture that could fetch thousands at auction, and the unsettling knowledge that everything in this room has been selected with purpose.
“Come in,” I call, expecting another guard.
Instead, a slight figure slips through the doorway. It’s the girl from before. The one with no name. Her movements are careful, measured—the deliberate steps of someone trained to be invisible. Her eyes remain fixed on the floor as she sets a tray on the dresser.
“Mr. Wolfe requests your presence for dinner in one hour,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m to help you prepare.”
“Please, tell me your name.” I stand, moving slowly so as not to startle her.
She flinches at the direct question, eyes darting up to meet mine before quickly returning to the floor. In that brief connection, I see exhaustion etched into features too young for such weariness.
“I don’t have one.” Her fingers twist in the fabric of her dress. “Mr. Wolfe calls me ‘girl.’”
Something cold slides down my spine. “Everyone has a name.”
“I had one. Before.” She moves to the closet and opens it. “Mr. Wolfe says names are for people, not property.”
The clinical way she says it—like reciting a fact about the weather—makes my stomach clench.
I’ve heard about Wolfe’s operation from Jon and the Guardian files.
Human trafficking. But seeing this girl, hearing the empty acceptance in her voice, makes the horror visceral in a way statistics never could.
“How long have you been here?” I approach slowly, afraid of startling the girl.
Her hands pause on a hanger. “Three years, four months, two weeks.” The precision of her answer speaks volumes. She’s counting.
Still tracking time. Still hoping.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I say it as if it’s something I can accomplish, but how am I going to free her? I need Jon. I can’t do this alone. Where is he? What has Wolfe done to him?
Is he being held? Tortured? Is he already dead?
My hand flies to my chest. I’d feel it, wouldn’t I? If Jon were dead?
For the first time, something flickers in her eyes—not quite hope, but the ghost of it. “That’s what the last girl said too.” She pulls a dress from the closet, and the sight of it punches the air from my lungs.
Azure blue silk, with a sweetheart neckline and delicate beading along the bodice. An exact replica of the dress my mother wore in the photographs on my father’s desk. The dress she was wearing the night she met him, according to the story he’s told countless times.
“He wants you to wear this.” The girl holds it out, and I can’t help but take a step back.
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “I won’t.”
“Please.” Fear threads through her whisper. “He’ll punish me if you refuse.”
Our eyes meet, and something unspoken passes between us. She nods once, slow, but her posture doesn’t change—shoulders still tucked tight, spine drawn inward like she’s trying to disappear.
Her body tells the truth that Wolfe would rather hide.
Faint scars ring her wrists, pale ridges that speak of restraint—not once, but often.
A fading bruise shadows the curve of her collarbone, yellow blooming into green beneath the neckline of her dress.
It makes me sick. Not just the marks, but the quiet way she wears them. As if she believes she earned them.
“Alright,” I whisper, bile thick in my throat. “I’ll wear it.”
Relief flickers across her face—too fleeting, too cautious to be real comfort. She moves behind me, hands trembling as she reaches for the zipper at my back.
I lift my arms to gather my hair.
She flinches.
Not a subtle twitch, not a blink. She jerks away, body recoiling like a dog bracing for the belt. Her breath stutters. Her hands fly up, defensive, before she catches herself—before shame and submission fold her back into place.
My chest tightens like it’s collapsing inward.
She thought I was going to hit her.
That motion—so simple, so thoughtless—read as a threat in her world. A raised hand equals pain.
Always .
I want to scream. I want to burn Wolfe’s empire to ash and drag him through the ruins.
But I stay still. I don’t speak. I don’t reach for her.
Because even kindness might feel like danger.
She smooths the zipper with shaking fingers. Her eyes never rise.
And I swear, whatever it takes, I’ll make sure no one ever makes her flinch again.
“Has he hurt you?” The question is unnecessary; the answer is written in every careful movement she makes.
She doesn’t respond, focusing instead on preparing the blue dress. As I step into it, the silk slides cool against my skin, and I fight a shudder. It fits perfectly—of course it does. The thought of Wolfe knowing my measurements makes my skin crawl.
The girl works silently, fastening closures and adjusting the fabric. When she steps back, she studies me with an odd expression.
“What is it?”
She shakes her head slightly. “You look like her. The woman in the photograph. In his study.”
“My mother,” I confirm softly.
She nods, then moves to the vanity, gesturing for me to sit. As she begins arranging my hair, her fingers work with surprising skill. For someone so damaged, her touch holds surprising tenderness.
“Did you know her?” I ask, watching her reflection in the mirror.
“No.” She pins a section of my hair, recreating an updo I recognize from my mother’s photos. “But he talks to her picture sometimes. When he drinks.”
My throat tightens. “What does he say?”
“That he should have fought for her.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, then dart away. “That he should have saved her from him.”
“From who?”
“Your father.” She secures the final pin. “Mr. Wolfe says your father stole her. That he destroyed her.”
Before I can respond, the door swings open. Wolfe stands in the threshold, immaculate in a tailored black suit. His eyes sweep over me, satisfaction and something darker flickering in their depths.
“Perfect,” he says, gaze lingering on the dress. “Rebecca would be proud.”
The casual use of my mother’s name in his mouth sends a surge of anger through me. I rise from the vanity, squaring my shoulders. “What do you want from me?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just dinner, Aria. A family dinner. Truth and all that comes from it.” He extends his arm. “Your father is waiting.”
I hesitate, glancing back at the girl who stands with her head bowed, hands clasped before her.
“The girl will join us,” Wolfe adds, catching my concern. “I insist.”
The girl’s shoulders tense, but she follows silently as Wolfe leads me through corridors lined with artwork worth more than most people’s homes. The juxtaposition is jarring—such beauty in a place built on suffering.
We descend a grand staircase into a dining room pulled from some warped fairy tale.
Gleaming mahogany stretches the length of the room, set for three with polished silver and blood-red crystal.
Chandeliers drip prisms of fractured light across gleaming floors, casting shimmering ghosts that dance between us.
A fire snaps behind a carved stone hearth—too ornate, too controlled, like everything in this house.
At the far end of the table sits my father.
His hands are bound to the arms of a high-backed chair, thick leather straps pulled taut.
A bruise blooms over his left cheekbone—angry, fresh—but his posture remains unbowed.
Chin lifted. Spine ramrod straight. The same unflappable force that presides over Fortune 500 boardrooms and black-tie galas.
Even now, blood drying at his temple, he radiates power.
“Aria, my darling,” His voice cracks—not from weakness, but sheer relief. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” I step toward him, heart hammering—but Wolfe’s fingers curl around my arm, stopping me cold.
A low chuckle rumbles from him, dark and indulgent.
“Family reunions are so touching.” He guides me not to my father, but to the chair opposite him, separating us by a battlefield of linen and crystal. A deliberate move. A message. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”
The room is a study in contrast—beauty and threat, elegance and menace layered in equal measure. But the real tension isn’t in the place settings or the guards stationed at the door.
It’s between the men flanking me.
Blood enemies. Bound by one woman. Torn apart by the same.
My mother’s ghost sits with us too, invisible but heavy in the air. Her absence sharpens the edge of every glance, every word.
I wear her. Or close enough.
The blue dress clings to my skin like memory—an exact replica of my mother’s favorite. The same midnight hue, the same elegant lines, the same fragile silk that used to shimmer when she twirled beneath ballroom chandeliers. I found it hanging in the closet. Not chosen by accident.
Wolfe knew exactly what he was doing.
My father sees it. His gaze skims the neckline, catches on the familiar slope of the shoulders, then hardens. His eyes flick to the neckline, then back to my face. No flicker of recognition. No change in expression. But I feel the tension bleed into the room like smoke.
No flinch. No reaction. Not even a blink.
But I see the effort it costs him.
The tightening of his jaw. The steel in his spine.
He knows what this is and refuses to give Wolfe the satisfaction of seeing it land.
But the silence between them isn’t empty. It says more than a scream ever could.
It’s loaded. Cracking.
And my mother’s memory sits between them like a lit fuse.
Marcus’s eyes dart to me again, hungry for confirmation that I’m whole. But Wolfe withholds it—casually, cruelly—savoring the way it twists the knife.
“Let her speak to me,” Marcus grits out, a growl buried beneath cultured restraint. “Let me know she’s okay.”
Wolfe leans back, relaxed as a king presiding over court.