Chapter 7 Kyra #2
I think about what Aaron told me of his parents' relationship—a cold, businesslike marriage that ended when he was in middle school. He rarely spoke of his mother, and now I wonder if that absence was his choice or his father's influence.
As evening approaches, I return to the front windows, peering out at the darkening driveway. Still no sign of either Strickland man.
A sudden, terrible thought occurs to me: what if neither of them comes back? What if this was Victor's plan all along—to leave me stranded, isolated, completely dependent on his return for my very survival?
No. That's paranoia talking. Victor will return, just as he said he would. The elaborate setup in the study, the gourmet food in the refrigerator, the careful attention to my preferences—none of that makes sense if abandonment was his goal.
But what is his goal?
The question haunts me as I move to the kitchen, searching for something to occupy my hands. I find ingredients for a simple pasta dish and begin cooking, the familiar process soothing my jangled nerves. As I chop vegetables and stir sauce, my mind circles back to Victor.
To the way he looked at me this morning, his gray eyes intense and focused as if I were the only person in his world.
To the careful way he prepared breakfast, noting how I take my coffee without having to ask.
To the brush of his fingers against mine when he handed me the mug, and the electricity that simple contact generated.
I shouldn't be thinking about Victor this way. He's Aaron's father. He's twenty-six years older than me. He's clearly manipulating this entire situation for reasons I don't understand.
And yet, I can't deny the pull I feel toward him. The way my body responds to his presence, the way my mind engages with his intelligence, the way he seems to see me in ways Aaron never did.
I'm so lost in these troubling thoughts that I don't notice the weather changing. It's only when I hear the distant rumble of an engine that I look outside and see fresh snow beginning to fall—thick, heavy flakes that promise another storm.
A car appears on the winding driveway, headlights cutting through the growing darkness and swirling snow. My pulse jumps—Aaron?—before I recognize Victor's Range Rover pushing through the accumulating whiteness.
Disappointment washes through me, surprising in its intensity. Despite everything, some part of me had still been hoping Aaron would arrive today, that we'd have a chance to talk things through, to see if anything could be salvaged from our relationship.
But it's not Aaron. It's his father, returning just as the weather turns treacherous again.
I don't hear the front door open over the wind that has picked up outside. Victor appears in the kitchen doorway, snow dusting his silver hair and the shoulders of his dark coat, his expression transforming from tension to warmth as he catches sight of me.
"You're cooking," he says, sounding genuinely pleased as he stamps snow from his boots.
"I got hungry," I reply, suddenly self-conscious about making myself at home in his kitchen. "I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? Kyra, everything here is at your disposal." He shrugs off his coat and moves beside me at the stove, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "It smells wonderful. I didn't know you cooked."
"My mom taught me the basics before she died. After that, it was learn or starve."
"Necessity breeding capability," he murmurs, his eyes studying my face with that unnerving intensity. "You've had to be self-sufficient from a young age. It shows in everything you do."
The simple observation, so casually delivered yet so accurate, makes my heart thump. When was the last time someone really saw the scaffolding beneath my achievements? When did Aaron last connect my drive to my past?
"Did you find the study?" Victor asks, moving to pour two glasses of wine.
"I did."
"And?"
"It's impressive," I admit, accepting the wine glass he offers. "Though I'm curious why a business executive has such specific academic resources."
His smile deepens, approval flashing in his eyes at my directness. "Knowledge is the only real currency, Kyra. Everything else—money, power, influence—they're just tools to acquire more knowledge or control who has access to it."
"Is that what this is about? Control?"
"This," he says, gesturing between us, "is about potential. Yours, specifically. And my recognition of it."
"You barely know me."
"You think so?" His voice drops to that intimate register that makes my pulse quicken. "I've watched you grow from a promising undergraduate into a brilliant researcher with world-changing potential. I've seen your determination, your resilience, your refusal to accept limitations."
"How long?" I ask, focusing on stirring the pasta sauce to avoid meeting his eyes. "How long have you been... observing me?"
"Since the first time Aaron brought you home." He says it without hesitation or shame. "You spoke about your research with such passion while everyone else at the table was discussing stock portfolios and vacation properties. I knew immediately you were different."
"Different how?"
"Authentic. Driven by purpose rather than appearance. Genuinely brilliant rather than merely educated." He leans against the counter, watching me work. "Do you know how rare that is in my world?"
I don't answer, unsure how to respond to his assessment. Instead, I change the subject to safer ground.
"Any word from Aaron?" I ask, reaching for plates from the cabinet Victor indicates.
A shadow crosses his face. "No. No update on his arrival."
Something in his tone makes me wonder, but I don't press the issue. Not yet.
We eat at the kitchen island rather than the formal dining table, the casual setting creating an artificial sense of normalcy that both comforts and unnerves me. The conversation flows easily—too easily, given the strangeness of our situation.
Victor asks thoughtful questions about my research, demonstrating enough knowledge to engage but revealing gaps that confirm my earlier suspicion: his interest is genuine but his understanding has limits. It’s a small advantage in whatever game we're playing.
"Did you have a productive day?" I ask when there's a lull in the academic discussion. "With your business situation?"
His face remains unreadable. "It was... resolved. Not as elegantly as I would have preferred, but effectively."
"What exactly do you do, Victor? Besides managing shipping and investments?"
"I solve problems." He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. "I connect people who need things with people who have things. I remove obstacles that stand in the way of progress."
"That's remarkably vague."
His laugh is warm and genuine. "Deliberately so. The details would bore you."
"Try me."
"Another time, perhaps." He stands, collecting our empty plates. "Tonight, I want to show you something far more interesting than my business dealings."
After helping him clear the dishes, I follow Victor to the living room, where he settles onto the sofa by the fireplace and pats the cushion beside him. When I sit down, careful to maintain some distance, he reaches for his tablet.
"I want to show you something," he says, opening what appears to be a series of documents. "Research opportunities. Graduate programs. Funding possibilities."
I lean closer to see the screen, and my breath catches. These aren't just any opportunities—these are positions at Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Stanford. Programs with waiting lists years long.
"This is incredible," I breathe, scrolling through offer letters and scholarship descriptions. "But these are extremely competitive. How did you even get these?"
"I have connections in academic medicine," he says simply. "People who owe me favors. People who recognize exceptional talent when I point it out to them."
The casual way he mentions these "connections" makes me wonder again exactly what kind of business Victor Strickland is really in. What sort of man can make a phone call and open doors that brilliant researchers spend their entire careers trying to access?
"Why would you do this for me?" I ask, looking up from the tablet. "We barely know each other."
His voice drops to that intimate register that makes my pulse quicken. "I've seen your determination, your brilliance, your refusal to accept limitations. I know what drives you, what you value, what you're capable of achieving."
The intensity in his words makes me reconsider my earlier assumptions.
Perhaps this isn't about some inappropriate attraction on his part.
Perhaps Victor truly sees me as a promising researcher worth investing in—a brilliant mind to mentor, to support financially, to guide toward greater achievements.
That would make more sense than the alternative. A man like Victor Strickland, with his wealth and power and sophistication, couldn't possibly be interested in me romantically. I'm half his age, his son's ex-girlfriend, a struggling graduate student. The idea is absurd.
"This is what I can give you," he continues, his eyes holding mine with startling intensity. "Not just opportunities or funding, but the freedom to be brilliant without apology. Without limitation."
I turn to face him fully, suddenly seeing our interaction in a new light. He's offering me patronage, not romance. Mentorship, not seduction. The realization is both a relief and, strangely, a disappointment.
Why does my heart race when he looks at me like this? Why do I find myself watching his hands, the way they move with such precision and control? Why am I noticing the silver at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes that speak of experience and authority?
Oh god. I'm the one having inappropriate thoughts about him. Not the other way around.
"What do you want in return?" I ask, because there must be a price. Men like Victor Strickland don't give gifts without expecting something back.