Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Henry
I’d barely left my office after my conversation with Blake.
Not because I had anything urgent to finish, apart from continuing to dig through Schaffer’s patient files. But that wasn’t the reason I’d locked myself in here.
Instead, it was to give Ariana space.
If I hovered too much or made it seem like I was constantly watching her, she’d see it as proof I was her warden and she my prisoner. So I stayed in my office, surrounded by the low hum of computers and the faint, bitter scent of stale coffee.
I’d spent most of the day combing through Schaffer’s records, searching for anything that might help me figure out what the hell was going on.
By late afternoon, the words on the screen had all begun to blur together — names, dates, fragments of medical jargon that led nowhere.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and leaned back in my chair, the leather groaning beneath me.
I’d been chasing shadows for hours, and all I’d managed to accomplish was to come up with more questions.
What was I missing?
Why couldn’t I shake the certainty that whatever Victor had Schaffer doing was worse than anything I’d uncovered so far?
I exhaled slowly, pushing back from the desk. Staring at these files wasn’t going to suddenly make the answers materialize. And the longer I sat in here, stewing, the more my thoughts kept drifting to Ariana.
And to my conversation with Blake.
How I needed to meet her halfway.
Was there a halfway? What would it take for her to understand I only wanted to keep her safe? There was no middle ground when it came to her safety. But how did I make her stop being so damn stubborn so she’d realize that?
I needed to clear my head. Move. Sweat. Do something other than spiral in my own damn thoughts.
Standing, I stretched my neck and back, rolling the tension out of my shoulders before stepping into the hallway, taking a moment to adjust to the natural late afternoon light filling the space. The door shut behind me with a soft click, but it still seemed to echo loudly in the quiet house.
As I moved down the hallway, I picked up the faintest trace of lavender and powder drifting through the air, growing stronger with every step I took. And when I emerged into the living room, I knew why.
Because Ariana was there.
She was dragging a suitcase I recognized as one that typically lived in the back of my closet, her expression set with quiet determination.
“I told you it’s not safe for you to leave,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I intended, seeming to thunder against the high ceilings.
She startled, her eyes wide as she snapped her head in my direction. She blinked repeatedly, her lips parting, obviously taken aback by my presence.
“Here’s a little tip. If you’re trying to make a quick getaway, it’s easier and faster if you leave everything behind.”
She straightened, lifting her chin in defiance. “For your information, I’m not leaving.”
“Oh, no?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Then explain the suitcase.”
“If I’m to be kept here against my will, I’d prefer to choose where I stay. And I’d rather stay with my mother. You did say I could go anywhere on your property, correct?”
The challenge in her tone was unmistakable. It reminded me of those first few days at the cabin when every word between us was a test. When I didn’t know whether I wanted to comfort her, avoid her, or kiss her senseless.
Hell, most days, I wanted to do all three.
I still did.
From the very beginning, I was drawn to her spirit. Her fire. Her determination.
It was so different from the poised and perfect trophy wife I thought her to be.
“I did…,” I drew out.
“Then that’s where I’m going. That’s what I choose.”
“I don’t—”
“You wouldn’t want to deprive me of this choice.” Her gaze met mine, steady and defiant. “Would you?”
Her question held everything… Her anger. Her fear. Her hope. But mixed within was a silent plea, begging me to prove I wasn’t like Victor.
A war raged inside me, every instinct screaming to keep her close and protect her. But layered beneath it all was something quieter. Harder. More honest.
I wanted her to trust me. She never would if I kept her caged.
Blake was right. Control was an illusion anyway. If she wanted to run, she’d find a way. If she wanted to stay, that had to be her decision. Her choice.
So, for the first time in a long time, I forced myself to let go. To give up the control I’d held on to for years.
She wanted space and a sense of autonomy.
I could give her that.
“Okay,” I said finally.
Her brows rose, her mouth slightly agape. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I responded evenly. “I understand why you might want some space. If you prefer to stay with your mother, I won’t stand in your way.”
“You won’t?”
I shrugged dismissively, as if the idea of giving up this much control didn’t pain me.
“You’re safe as long as you remain on my property. The guesthouse is on my property. No harm will come to you there. Do you want me to help carry your bag?” I gestured toward it, but kept my distance.
She stared at me for several protracted moments, obviously dumbfounded by my sudden about-face. I had a feeling this entire situation was a test. She most likely expected me to push back. But I wasn’t going to. I was going to give her some rope.
Some freedom.
“I can manage,” she replied.
I stepped aside, letting her pass.
As much as I hated watching her limp through the great room and toward the French doors, I gave her the space she needed, her steps echoing against the polished floors in the cavernous room.
When she opened the door, she paused, glancing back at me. Our eyes met — hers conflicted, mine hopefully confident and reassuring.
Then she faced forward and stepped into the sunlight. I watched until she disappeared from view, the sound of her suitcase on the gravel path fading with her.