Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Ariana
The setting sun washed the garden in hues of pink and blue, the dwindling light catching on my mother’s white hair as she leaned over a bed of marigolds. For a few precious hours, it was as if the last decade had never happened.
She hummed softly while she worked, her hands steady as she pressed soil around the roots.
She hadn’t been steady for years. Every time she glanced up at me, her eyes were clear.
Focused in a way I hadn’t seen since I was twenty.
There were still flashes of confusion, momentary falters as she tried to remember something.
But instead of spiraling into panic like before, she listened when I explained.
The fog that had swallowed her for so long seemed to lift.
For the first time in years, she felt like my mother again.
I didn’t want to question it. Not yet. Instead, I allowed myself to enjoy this without worrying when it would end.
The crunch of boots on gravel drew my attention away from my mother, and I looked up as Henry’s shadow stretched across the garden, long and sharp in the fading light. When he came into view, my heart seemed to speed up of its own accord.
His dark hair was damp from a recent shower, curling at the ends, and he wore a pair of jeans and a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt that clung to his chest and biceps. It was such a simple look, but it made him seem real in a way he never had before.
It made me wonder if maybe I was finally seeing the real Henry Fontaine.
“Everything okay out here?” His question was low, almost tentative.
“Perfect. Thank you, Henry.” My mother smiled at him with an affection and familiarity that surprised me.
She had never looked at Victor this way.
Then again, she’d voiced her concerns about Victor from the beginning.
I replied by insisting she just didn’t want me to be happy.
How wrong I’d been.
“But I think I’ve done enough planting for one day,” she continued, rising to her full five-five height and tossing her gardening gloves to the side, brushing off the dirt still clinging to her jeans.
“I’ll help you get cleaned up,” I offered, standing too quickly.
Pain flared through my knee, and I wavered on my feet. Henry was there in an instant, wrapping an arm around my waist, holding me steady.
The contact sent a pulse of heat straight through me, warm and uninvited.
I hated that my body still reacted to him like this.
“I can manage myself,” my mother said, a gentle finality in her tone that left me blinking. For so long, she’d needed help with everything, from brushing her hair to remembering her own name.
Henry inclined his head toward her. “Are you hungry? You’re welcome to join me for dinner.”
“Was your housekeeper able to get the items on my list?”
“She was,” he said. “They’re all in your kitchen.”
“Then I’d like to cook myself. It’s been far too long since I’ve done anything like that.”
“Of course.” He gave her a cordial smile. “If you change your mind, the invitation stands.”
“I’ll come help you,” I offered, limping toward her, but she stopped me.
“That’s not necessary.” There was something knowing in her look, soft but measured. “You two probably have a lot to talk about. And after so many years without privacy, I’d love a little peace.”
“Are you sure you feel all right?” I asked, not used to seeing my mother like this.
“I’ve never felt better.” She placed a gentle kiss on my forehead, then turned and walked away.
“She seems like a completely different person,” I murmured as I watched her figure disappear into the amber light.
Henry’s voice came from behind me, quiet but firm. “That’s because she is.”
I faced him. “How?”
He parted his lips, as if searching for the words. “I’ll explain over dinner.”
I raised a brow. “Is this your way of bribing me?”
His mouth lifted in the corners. “Is it working?”
My heart betrayed me with a stutter.
That smile… It reminded me of all the ways he’d once made me feel seen, safe. The way he’d looked at me when he told me none of what Victor did to me was my fault. When he called me a warrior. When he traced my scars like they were something beautiful.
“Please, Ariana. Have dinner with me.”
I wanted to say no. Wanted to hate him. Wanted to keep my distance. But when I saw the pleading look in his eyes, I couldn’t seem to form the word.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Dinner.”
Relief flickered across his face, as if he’d just won the lottery. He placed a hand on the small of my back, steering me toward the main house.
The kitchen was massive. High ceilings, stainless steel everything, marble counters that gleamed under the recessed lights. He pulled a barstool from the island for me.
“Here. Sit. How’s your knee?”
“A little sore,” I admitted, wincing as I eased onto the stool. “Krystal gave me a painkiller earlier so that’s helped a bit.”
“And your ribs?”
“They just feel like I did a really intense workout. The worst pain is probably from the stitches.” I touched the bandage over my right brow.
“At least you had a professional stitch you up.” He chuckled, opening a bottle of water and setting it in front of me as he passed me a knowing gleam.
“Sorry about that.” I stole a glance at the angry red line covering his brow. “First time for me. How’s your head? And ankle?”
“I’m fine.” He shrugged. “Krystal says I’ll have a nice scar to remember you by.”
“God. I’m so sorry.”
I hadn’t even thought about how I might permanently scar or disfigure him when I was patching him up. My sole priority was to stop the bleeding before he lost consciousness.
“It’s okay. I’ve had worse.”
I immediately thought of the scars I’d seen across his back — faded pink lines crisscrossing his skin.
“Scars remind us of the battles we fought and won,” he said softly, as if able to read my thoughts. “They stop hurting once you stop pretending they never happened.”
The words hit somewhere deep inside me. Victor had made me live in denial of every scar, physical and otherwise. Pretend I was whole when I was barely standing. Barely surviving.
But Henry had seen all of them. Instead of looking away, he’d touched each mark like it was proof of my strength.
“So…,” he cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. “What are you in the mood for? I have fish, steak, or chicken. Actually, maybe not chicken. I think we’ve had enough of that particular dish.”
Heat flooded my cheeks at the reminder of the night I’d drugged his chicken marsala. Or, more accurately, the mashed potatoes I served with the chicken marsala.
“In my defense, I thought you were going to kill me. Or sell me to the Bratva. Or both.”
“And now? Do you still think I want to kill you?”
“The jury’s still out.”
“I’ll take that as progress.” He smiled faintly. “Fish tacos okay with you?”
“Perfect.”
He moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, seasoning tilapia, chopping tomatoes, mashing an avocado, the scent of lime and cilantro filling the air.
It was fascinating to watch him work, his muscles flexing as he chopped and diced. I could watch him for hours and never get bored.
“What?” he asked without glancing up.
“What do you mean?”
“I can feel your eyes on me.”
“I just didn’t expect you to cook is all,” I lied. I wasn’t about to admit I was checking him out. That the sight of him cooking was better than any porn I’d ever seen.
I would take that confession to my grave.
“You’ve seen me cook before.”
“I assumed you’d just reheat something your housekeeper made earlier.”
“I like cooking for you,” he said simply. “Like taking care of you.” His eyes found mine, steady and unguarded. “It’s confusing as hell, because I’ve never been this way. But with you…I don’t know. I want to do this sort of thing for you.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe this could be real. That, despite our beginning, maybe something good could come out of this situation.
But life had taught me better. If something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.
When the tilapia was done, he constructed the tacos and set a plate in front of me. The smell alone made my stomach growl. I eagerly lifted one of the tacos and took a large bite, fighting back the moan begging to be set free.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded, swallowing. “Really good. Thank you.”
A faint, satisfied smile ghosted across his lips. He didn’t eat right away, just watched me. As if seeing me alive, eating, breathing was a gift he didn’t think he deserved.
I shifted my eyes forward, focusing on the food. But the longer we sat in silence, the more unnerved I became.
The more the thousands of questions I’d been asking myself as I sat in the garden with my mother nagged at me.
“Am I still your captive?” I blurted out after several moments. “Is my mother?”
He snapped his eyes toward me, his expression almost offended. “Of course not.”
“So we can leave?”
He hesitated, and the pause told me everything I needed to know.
“It’s not safe, Ariana. Victor hasn’t been seen since Sunday. If he’s running, he’s dangerous. And let’s not forget he sent the fucking Bratva after you. Until I know there’s no longer a threat to you, you’re safer here.”
“What if I don’t want to stay?”
“And where would you go? You have no money of your own. No home. Everything you have is tied to Victor.”
I parted my lips to argue, but he was right. I’d essentially traded my soul to the devil for a false sense of security. Now, I had nowhere to go. No place to call home.
But did that mean I was willing to stay with Henry?
“Don’t ask me to let you go, Ariana. I can’t—” He broke off, his voice low and raw.
“When I drove up to my Jeep and saw all that blood staining the snow…” He squeezed his eyes shut before returning his pained gaze to mine.
“I can’t lose you. Please don’t make me go through that again. I don’t… I don’t think I’d survive.”
The look on his face made my chest ache.
What must that have been like? To wake up to find me missing? To learn the Bratva was after me?
Then to find the car I’d stolen smashed into a tree with blood everywhere?
I wanted to sympathize with him. Wanted to wrap him in my arms and assure him he’d never lose me.
But I wasn’t sure I could trust him.
“How did my mother end up here?” I asked, redirecting the conversation before I allowed his kind words to pull me under.
He tore his eyes from me, clearing his throat.
“I wasn’t sure how far Victor would go.” He took a bite of his taco, washing it down with some water.
“I had her brought here just in case. Turns out, I was right. Victor’s made substantial donations to a charity Dr. Schaffer is on the board of.
My guess is he bribed him to falsify her records. And drug her.”
I coughed. “What?”
“She doesn’t have dementia, Ariana. The scans didn’t match. Her panels showed a cocktail of drugs meant to mimic it. My guess is you only saw your mother when Victor allowed it?”
I slowly nodded.
“Probably made sure she was doped up enough.”
“So she’s…she’s fine?”
“She is.”
The words broke something inside me. I covered my mouth, a small sob escaping before I could stop it.
All those years I’d watched her fade. All that guilt. All that grief.
And it was all another lie.
Another game of manipulation.
No wonder doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with her until Victor recommended his specialist to us. Dr. Wilson Schaffer.
Without thinking, I reached for Henry. My hand found his, warm and rough. “Thank you.”
He squeezed back, his thumb brushing my knuckles. “I’d do anything for you.”
There was so much sincerity in his words and, for a moment, I let myself believe him.
Let myself feel the warmth of his touch.
Let myself be happy.
“So what now?” I asked quietly, releasing his hand and refocusing my attention on my taco.
“Now you rest. Spend time with your mother. Make up for the years you lost.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What will you do?”
“Whatever it takes to keep you safe,” he said. “To make sure no one ever hurts you again.”