28. Aria
TWENTY-EIGHT
Aria
“You don’t mean that.” My father’s eyes narrow, the calculation in them shifting to something darker. “You’re upset, confused by Damien’s manipulations.”
“I’m seeing clearly for the first time,” I counter. The crystal chandelier light suddenly seems harsh, exposing every line in my father’s face, every flicker of his expression. The mask is gone now, revealing something cold and alien beneath the familiar features.
Wolfe watches our exchange, like a chess player observing an unexpected move. The nameless girl edges closer to the door, sensing the dangerous shift in the room’s atmosphere.
“After everything I’ve given you,” my father says, voice low and dangerous. “After all I’ve done to protect you, to provide for you—this is how you repay me?”
“Protect me?” I laugh, the sound brittle in the opulent room. “Like you protected my mother?”
His face contorts. “Your mother was weak. Sentimental. She would have destroyed everything I built—everything that would have been your legacy.”
“My legacy?” I repeat, revulsion rising like bile. “Built on suffering? On exploitation? On murder?”
“Built on vision,” he snaps. “On understanding that progress requires sacrifice. That greatness demands difficult choices.” He leans forward against his restraints.
“Do you think the world’s advancements come without cost?
That medical breakthroughs appear by magic?
Someone always pays the price. I simply ensured it wasn’t us. ”
The clinical coldness in his voice sends a chill down my spine. This is my father stripped of pretense—the ruthless calculator who sees human lives as entries on a balance sheet.
“So you admit it,” I say quietly. “Everything Wolfe said about your business. About what happened to my mother.”
Something shifts in his expression—a recognition that he’s said too much, revealed too much—but instead of retreating behind his mask, something darker emerges. If he can’t reclaim control through manipulation, perhaps force will serve.
“What I admit,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous register, “is that I’ve built something extraordinary. Something that has saved thousands of lives that matter.” His emphasis on the last word is deliberate, cutting. “And I won’t apologize for the methods required.”
“And my mother?” I press. “Did she deserve to die for threatening your precious company?”
His jaw tightens. “Rebecca made her choice when she betrayed me. When she ran to him.” His eyes shoot daggers at Wolfe. “When she threatened to destroy everything with her misguided morality.”
“So you killed her.” The words hang in the air between us.
For a moment, I think he’ll deny it. Instead, his expression hardens with a terrible resolve.
“I did what was necessary,” he says coldly.
No remorse colors his voice, only irritation at an unforeseen complication. “An unfortunate escalation, but the result was the same. The company was protected. You were protected.”
The casual admission steals my breath. The dining room seems to contract around us, the ornate wallpaper closing in, the crystal chandelier light harsh and accusing.
My father—the man who raised me, who I spent my life trying to please—just admitted to killing my mother as if discussing a business merger that had unexpected complications.
“Protected? Is that what you call it? Keeping me ignorant? Controlling every aspect of my life? Ensuring I became exactly what you wanted?”
“I gave you everything,” he says, genuine bewilderment in his tone that I’m not grateful. “The best education. Every advantage. A legacy that will endure for generations.”
“A legacy built on blood,” I counter.
“Don’t be melodramatic.” His face darkens. “It’s unbecoming.”
“Unbecoming,” I repeat, a hysterical laugh threatening. “My father admits to killing my mother, to building his empire on the deaths of countless ‘worthless’ people, and I’m being ‘unbecoming’ by opening my eyes and seeing you for who you really are?”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. The restraints on his chair creak as he strains against them.
“You’ve been corrupted.” His voice rises. “First by Rebecca’s weakness, now by Damien’s manipulations. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” I echo, finding strength in my growing rage. “You don’t get to ‘ allow ’ anything anymore. Not with me.”
His expression transforms into something I’ve never seen before—a raw, primal fury that erases all traces of the controlled businessman I’ve known my entire life.
“You are my daughter,” he snarls. “ Mine! Not his. Never his. Everything you are, everything you have, comes from me .”
The possessiveness in his voice is terrifying. Not love—ownership. I realize with sudden clarity that I’ve never been his child. I’ve been his possession. His creation. His legacy.
“Maybe biologically,” I acknowledge, my voice steadier than I feel. “But in every way that matters, I am not your daughter. Not anymore. You’re dead to me.”
Something snaps in him. With a roar, he throws his weight sideways, toppling the heavy chair. The restraints loosen as the chair arm cracks against the marble floor. Before anyone can react, he frees one hand, then the other.
The nameless girl shrinks back against the wall, terror etched across her face. Wolfe rises swiftly, but he’s too slow. My father lunges across the table, crystal and silver scattering in his wake.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” he snarls, lunging for me with hands outstretched. “After everything I’ve done for you?—”
I stumble backward, my chair toppling as I scramble away from his rage. The chandelier light fractures across shattered crystal on the floor, each shard reflecting his contorted features as he advances.
Wolfe intercepts him, catching him mid-lunge. Despite their age, both men are powerful, driven by decades of hatred. They crash into the sideboard, expensive china shattering around them.
My father breaks free of Wolfe’s grip, shoving him hard against the wall. I hear the sickening crack as Wolfe’s head connects with the ornate molding. Blood streaks the cream-colored paint as Wolfe slides to the floor, momentarily stunned.
My father seizes the advantage, grabbing a heavy crystal decanter from the sideboard. He brings it down against Wolfe’s skull. More blood spatters across the expensive carpet as Wolfe crumples further.
“I should have ended you years ago.” My father raises the decanter for another blow.
The scene freezes my blood. My father stands over Wolfe, who lies crumpled on an antique Persian rug, blood staining the intricate patterns.
“Always the same story, isn’t it, Damien?” my father says conversationally, as if they’re discussing business over brandy. “You want what’s mine. First Rebecca. Now Aria. You never did understand your place.”
Wolfe struggles to push himself upright, blood streaming from a gash on his temple. “Rebecca was never yours,” he manages, voice thick with pain. “Neither is Aria.”
The nameless girl has frozen by the wall, her eyes wide with terror. She’s seen this violence before—lived it. For her, this isn’t shocking; it’s confirmation of the world she already knows.
I need to do something. The girl won’t move—can’t move. She knows what happens to slaves who run. My gaze darts around the room, searching for a weapon, an escape route, anything.
“Goodbye, brother,” my father says. “This time, I’ll ensure the job is finished properly.”
My father strikes Wolfe again, the decanter coming down with brutal force. Wolfe’s body goes limp, blood pooling beneath his head. Whether he’s unconscious or dead, I can’t tell.
“Now for you,” my father says, turning toward me. Blood—Wolfe’s blood—spatters his expensive suit, flecks his face. The civilized mask is gone completely, revealing the predator beneath.
I back away, my legs hitting a serving cart. Without thinking, I grab a carving knife from its surface.
“Stay back,” I warn, holding the blade before me.
My father’s laugh is cold, dismissive. “Really? You think you can use that? On me?” He advances, confident in his control over me—the control he’s cultivated my entire life. “Put it down before you embarrass yourself. This unpleasantness has gone on long enough.”
My hand trembles, but I don’t lower the knife. My entire life has been about pleasing this man, earning his approval, obeying his commands. Breaking that pattern takes everything I have.
“I said stay back,” I repeat.
“This rebellious phase is tedious.” He shakes his head, disappointed. “We’re leaving now. Once we’re home, we’ll discuss your future—away from these—influences.”
He reaches for me, utterly confident I won’t strike. That’s his mistake. As his hand extends, I slash outward with the knife. The blade catches his palm, opening a shallow cut. He jerks back, genuine shock registering on his face.
“You little—” he snarls, looking at the blood welling on his hand. “You’ll regret that.”
His eyes darken with something I’ve never seen directed at me before—the same cold calculation I’ve glimpsed when he discusses business rivals who’ve crossed him. Opponents who later disappeared or were destroyed financially, personally, completely.
I’m no longer his precious daughter. I’m an obstacle. A problem to eliminate.
He lunges again, faster than I expect. The knife clatters from my grip as he seizes my wrist, twisting until pain forces me to my knees.
“I’ve given you everything.” Spittle flies from his lips. His face inches from mine. “And this is how you repay me? With betrayal? With violence?”
His grip tightens, grinding the bones in my wrist. I bite back a cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Behind him, the nameless girl edges toward the fallen knife.
“You’re coming home,” my father says, his voice flat with certainty. “We’ll undo whatever poison Damien has fed you. Whatever weakness he’s cultivated.”
“I’d rather die,” I tell him, meaning it.