24. Aria #2
“You’re in no position to demand anything.” He folds his napkin slowly, deliberately. “But don’t worry. She’s here. Breathing. For now, that’s enough.”
My father’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t lash out. That’s not his way. He bleeds power without needing to raise his voice.
But I see it—the crack in his composure. Not from fear for himself. But for me.
He doesn’t know what Wolfe wants, but I’m the prize they’re both fighting over.
The nameless girl materializes beside me, pulling out my chair. As I sit, she keeps her eyes downcast, particularly when near Wolfe. Her presence at the edge of the room—not quite servant, not quite guest—creates a constant undercurrent of tension.
Wolfe takes the head of the table, signaling to the girl. She moves immediately to pour wine into crystal glasses that catch the light like liquid rubies. When she reaches Wolfe, he casually rests his hand on her arm, fingers digging in possessively.
She freezes, bottle still poised, until he removes his hand with a smirk in my direction. The message is clear: everything here belongs to him.
I fight the urge to stand up for her, but drawing his attention to her would only make things worse.
I’ve seen that dynamic play out in charity galas where wealthy men treat their trophy wives as accessories.
Making a scene never helps the victim. So I swallow my disgust, filing it away with all the other reasons Wolfe deserves to rot in prison.
“To family.” Wolfe raises his glass. “The one thing that can never truly be escaped.”
My father’s face remains impassive, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. “If this is another attempt to rehash ancient history, I’m not interested.”
“Ancient history?” Wolfe laughs, the sound sharp and without humor. “Is that what you call stealing the love of my life?”
The girl sets a plate before me—something artfully arranged that I have no appetite for.
Her hands tremble slightly, and I see the faint outline of fingerprints still visible on her wrist from Wolfe’s grip.
She catches me looking and quickly tucks her arm against her side, as if hiding evidence of a crime we both know occurred.
“I stole nothing,” my father replies coolly. “Rebecca chose me.”
“Did she?” Wolfe snaps his fingers, and the girl hurries to a sideboard, retrieving a leather portfolio. “Perhaps we should let Aria decide that for herself.”
The girl places a portfolio before me, then retreats to the shadows along the wall. Her presence is a constant reminder of what Wolfe is capable of—the human cost of his empire. I want to tell her to sit, to eat with us, but I know such a gesture would only bring Wolfe’s wrath down on her later.
“Open it,” Wolfe instructs.
With reluctant fingers, I lift the cover. Inside are photographs—dozens of them, carefully preserved. My mother, younger than I ever knew her, laughing in the sunlight. Her head thrown back, eyes crinkled with genuine joy. Beside her, a younger Wolfe, looking at her with unmistakable adoration.
The contrast is startling. In my father’s photographs, my mother always looks composed, elegant—the perfect society wife. In these, she’s radiant with unguarded happiness. I’ve never seen her smile like this in any picture with my father.
Something flickers across Wolfe’s face—surprise, perhaps, that this revelation isn’t landing with the impact he expected.
“That changes nothing.” I close the portfolio, refusing to be manipulated. “Whatever ancient grudge exists between you two, it doesn’t justify kidnapping me.”
The nameless girl moves silently around the table, refilling water glasses with trembling hands.
The crystal pitcher looks heavy in her thin arms. When she passes behind Wolfe, his hand darts out, catching her wrist. She goes utterly still, like a deer in headlights.
His thumb traces slow circles on her inner wrist while he continues the conversation as if this casual violation is perfectly normal.
I taste bile in the back of my throat, but force my expression to remain neutral. Any reaction would only encourage him, make things worse for her. The helplessness burns like acid.
“Did you know,” Wolfe leans forward, finally releasing the girl’s wrist, “that your mother and I were in love before your father ever entered the picture?”
“You mentioned something, but I don’t trust you.
” I look up, my gaze moving between them.
I want to be loyal to my father, but in the photographs, my mother looks happier with Wolfe than in any image I’ve ever seen of her with my father.
The contrast is stark—this laughing, vibrant woman versus the composed, reserved mother I remember.
“A brief infatuation,” my father dismisses with a wave of his bound hand. “Rebecca quickly realized her mistake.”
“Did she?” Wolfe’s voice drops dangerously. He gestures to the girl again, who brings another folder, placing it before me with trembling hands. “Or did you threaten her family’s financial security? Did you tell her what would happen if she didn’t comply?”
My father’s jaw tightens. “Ridiculous accusations.”
I open the second folder. Bank statements. Loan documents with my grandfather’s signature. Foreclosure notices dated shortly after my mother began dating my father, then mysteriously withdrawn.
“Your maternal grandparents were facing financial ruin,” Wolfe explains, his eyes never leaving my father’s face. “Until suddenly, they weren’t. Miraculous timing, wouldn’t you say?”
The girl moves silently around the table, refilling water glasses…
again. When she reaches Wolfe, he absently runs his hand up her arm.
She goes completely still, eyes fixed on the floor, until he releases her.
The casual ownership in the gesture makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to remain impassive.
Drawing attention to her would only make things worse.
The touch is proprietary, lingering. The girl’s face remains carefully blank, but I catch the slight tremor in the pitcher, the way her knuckles whiten around its handle.
This isn’t the first time. Won’t be the last. Each subtle interaction between them tells a story of systematic abuse, ownership rather than employment.
“You manipulated her,” I say quietly, looking at my father.
“I protected her,” he counters. “Damien was already involved in criminal activities. I offered Rebecca security, legitimacy.”
“You offered her a prison,” Wolfe hisses. He pulls something from his jacket—a small recorder. “Perhaps you’d like to hear Rebecca’s own words on the matter?”
“Don’t you dare—” My father lunges forward, straining against his restraints.
The girl flinches at the sudden movement, backing against the wall. The water pitcher clutched to her chest like a shield. Her fear is palpable, a living thing in the room with us.
Wolfe presses play, and my mother’s voice fills the dining room. She sounds tired, defeated.
“ He watches everything. Controls everything. The money, the staff, who I speak to. He says it’s for my protection, but I’m suffocating, Damien. I made a terrible mistake. ”
“Edited. Manipulated.” My father’s face has gone ashen. “This proves nothing.”
“There’s more,” Wolfe promises, his smile cruel. “So much more, Marcus. Shall we discuss the bruises her maid documented? The ‘accidents’ that always seemed to happen when Rebecca spoke of leaving you?”
The recording continues, my mother’s voice growing more desperate. “ If anything happens to me, promise you’ll watch over Aria. Marcus will try to control her like he controls me. Don’t let him break her. ”
The blood drains from my face. These words—my mother’s voice—shatter something fundamental in my understanding of my childhood. The expensive schools, the security details, the careful monitoring of my friends… Protection or control?
The girl’s eyes lift, watching me with something like recognition. Perhaps she sees in me what my mother once was—another beautiful possession in a gilded cage.
The crystal chandeliers suddenly seem too bright, the room too small. Every luxury around us—the hand-painted china, the sterling silver cutlery, the priceless artwork on the walls—all of it built on suffering. My mother’s. This girl’s. How many others?
The scent of expensive perfume mingles with the aroma of food neither of us will eat. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes nine times, the sound echoing through marble hallways. The girl shifts her weight, a barely perceptible movement that speaks volumes about how long she’s been standing.
My gaze returns to the photographs of my mother—her smile, her obvious love for the younger Wolfe.
I try to reconcile that joyful woman with the reserved, anxious mother I remember.
The mother who flinched at loud noises. Who checked my father’s schedule obsessively.
Who taught me to be perfect, quiet, unobtrusive—to avoid his moods.
“Why this elaborate setup?” I ask, forcing strength into my voice. “Why the dinner theatrics?”
“Because you deserve to know the truth,” Wolfe answers, something almost human flickering across his features. “About who your father is. About what happened to your mother.”
A terrible suspicion begins to form. The “accident” that took my mother—a fall down the stairs. The closed-casket funeral. The way my father controlled the narrative so completely.
I look at my father, searching for denial, for outrage at these accusations. Instead, I see calculation in his eyes—assessing how much I believe, how to spin this, how to maintain control of the situation—of me.
And for the first time, I wonder if I’ve been living with a monster all these years.