21. Aria
TWENTY-ONE
Aria
Cold air hits my face, and the world tilts sideways.
Hands grip my arms, too tight, dragging me from the car. My legs won’t work. My head lolls against someone’s shoulder. Chemical sweetness coats my tongue.
Jon. Where’s Jon?
A flash of awareness breaks through the fog. Men in black tactical gear. The gleam of weapons. Jon’s crumpled form, still in the car, his arm outstretched toward me.
“Jon…” My voice sounds foreign, distant.
“Shh, Aria.” A man’s voice. Familiar yet not. “You’re safe.”
My father appears in fragmented vision, limp between two masked men. His head hangs forward, unconscious. A second kidnapping. The statistical improbability of it would be almost funny if terror wasn’t clawing up my throat.
Another car. Black SUV. The interior smells of leather and pine.
“Separate vehicles.” The same voice, commanding. “Marcus goes with Team Two.”
I try to turn my head to see who’s speaking, but my muscles refuse to cooperate. My vision swims, darkness encroaching.
A face leans close. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that are too familiar.
“It’s time you learned the truth about your father,” he whispers. “About your mother. About me.”
The words make no sense. The gas pulls me under before I can process them.
Darkness.
---
Light burns through my eyelids.
I jerk awake, heart hammering against my ribs. Where am I? What happened?
The ceiling above me is coffered, cream-colored with gold inlay. Not a hospital. Not my bedroom.
My mouth feels like cotton, my throat raw. The sedative. The kidnapping. Jon.
Oh, where is Jon? If they’ve hurt him…
I sit up too quickly. The room spins. Nausea rises. I grip silk sheets—emerald green, high thread count—until the dizziness passes.
This isn’t the warehouse from last time. No wire cage. No concrete floor.
Instead, I’m in a bedroom that belongs in an architectural magazine. King-sized bed with a mahogany frame. Artwork on the walls—originals, not prints. Fresh flowers on the nightstand beside a crystal carafe of water.
A prison disguised as a five-star hotel suite.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My black dress clings, wrinkled from sleep, the fabric heavy against my skin. No shoes. Just bare feet sinking into unexpected warmth—not concrete, not linoleum. Heated marble. Smooth, polished. Luxurious.
Too luxurious for a prison.
But that’s what this is.
My limbs drag, the lingering haze of sedation dulling the edges of everything, but the floor is unmistakably rich and warm, like something out of a spa or a mansion. Not a cage, like before, and that contrast makes my stomach turn.
The details jar against my memory of the last kidnapping—the cage, the filth, the terror. Ember… My light in the darkness.
Jon.
Where is he? The memory of his body sprawled across the car seat, reaching for me as they pulled me away, tightens my chest. Is he alive?
And my father… I remember his limp form being loaded into a different vehicle.
My head throbs as fragments of last night reassemble. The driver. The gas. Hands pulling me from the car. And that whisper…
“It’s time you learned the truth about your father…”
Damien Wolfe. The man we believed dead after the last rescue operation. My father’s half-brother. The crime lord who traffics children now wants me to know “the truth . ”
I push myself to standing, fighting a wave of dizziness. I need to assess my situation. Find an escape route. Locate Jon.
The room is approximately twenty by twenty feet. Double doors that presumably lead to a hallway. Another door slightly ajar, showing an en-suite bathroom. Two tall windows with a view of pine-covered mountains. Coastal mountains. We’re still in California at least.
I try the main doors first. Locked, as expected. The knob doesn’t even turn. I press my ear against the wood, listening for guards. Nothing.
The windows next. They stretch from floor to ceiling, filling the room with morning light.
The view is spectacular—gentle hills rolling toward the distant Pacific.
I’m high up, on the second or third floor of a building perched on a hillside.
The windows are fixed panes. No latches, no way to open them.
And the glass, when I tap it, returns a solid, heavy sound.
Security glass. Unbreakable without tools.
I sweep the room for surveillance—corners, ceiling edges, recessed panels. If cameras are here, they’re expertly concealed. The ceiling’s too high to reach, even standing on the bed. Whoever designed this space knew exactly how far I could stretch.
The bathroom is another mindfuck. Marble gleams under recessed lighting, accented by gold fixtures so polished they reflect. The floor radiates warmth underfoot. A rainfall shower with digital controls and jets. Everything screams luxury.
But it’s the details that make my stomach knot.
A row of toiletries lines the marble counter—every brand I use, down to the exact vanilla-cedar shampoo I hoard from that boutique in SoHo. The moisturizer I keep in my travel bag. Even the lip balm I reorder compulsively. My scent, my routine.
Monogrammed towels wait beside the sink. A single letter stitched in gold thread: W .
There’s no razor. No scissors. Nothing sharp. Nothing dangerous.
Except the implication.
This isn’t random. This is curated. Customized.
Whoever orchestrated this didn’t just want a hostage.
They wanted me. Not just the woman I am now, but every version of me.
The girl who still texts her housekeeper for skincare refills.
The woman who used to leave her straightener on the bathroom counter.
They studied me. Prepared for me.
I splash cold water on my face, hoping to wake up from whatever carefully gilded nightmare this is. The mirror answers with the truth—pale skin, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, hair twisted into knots. I look like hell.
But beneath the wreckage, there’s something new. A tightness around the mouth. A quiet defiance in my eyes.
The socialite who walked into that restaurant last night wouldn’t have lasted here.
But I will.
Back in the bedroom, I notice a closet I missed during my initial sweep. Inside, a selection of clothing hangs in obsessive order. Casual wear, athletic clothes, evening dresses. All in my size. All in styles and colors I would choose for myself.
But one garment stops my breath.
A pale blue wrap dress with a delicate floral pattern. Almost identical to one my mother used to wear. I haven’t seen that dress since I was eight years old, but I remember her wearing it to Sunday brunches, to gallery openings, to afternoons in the garden.
I touch the fabric, a chill racing up my spine. How would Wolfe know about this? The dress isn’t vintage—it’s new, tags still attached. Custom-made to duplicate a twenty-year-old memory.
I yank my hand back as if burned. This goes beyond stalking. Beyond research. This is—personal. Intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“It’s time you learned the truth about your father.”
What truth? What could this monster possibly know about my father that I don’t?
As for my mother and the blue dress, Rebecca Holbrook died when I was eight.
One day, she was there, singing off-key in the kitchen, braiding my hair too tightly.
The next—gone. Sudden. No explanation, I was old enough to understand, just whispered voices behind closed doors, and a funeral I barely remember.
Closed casket.
My father never spoke of her again. Her photos vanished from the walls. Her name dropped from conversation like it carried disease. Any time I asked, he redirected. It was a tragedy, darling, let it rest. Eventually, I stopped asking.
I used to think it was grief.
Now… I’m not so sure.
The door lock clicks. I spin toward the sound, heart leaping into my throat. My gaze darts around the room for a weapon. The lamp is too unwieldy. The pen on the nightstand is too flimsy.
The carafe. Heavy crystal. I grab it, water sloshing over my hand as I position myself against the wall where the door will hide me when it opens.
The handle turns. The door swings inward with a soft click.
A girl enters carrying a breakfast tray—no older than seventeen, maybe eighteen at most. She’s dressed in a simple black shift that’s too formal for a housemaid and too polished for someone free. Dark hair pinned into a neat bun, eyes downcast in practiced submission.
When she doesn’t immediately see me, her brows lift slightly.
“Miss Holbrook?”
I stay silent, still half-shadowed, still gripping the carafe like a weapon.
She turns, spots me near the corner, and freezes.
Only for a second.
Her expression shifts—not to fear. But recognition. Understanding. Like she’s seen worse reactions. Like girls with wild eyes and weaponized carafes are part of her daily routine.
“I’ve brought your breakfast.” Her voice is soft, with a hint of an accent I can’t place. Maybe Southern. Maybe midwestern. Something scrubbed clean. “Mr. Wolfe thought you might be hungry when you woke.”
“Where is Jon?” My voice cracks from disuse, rough as gravel.
She flinches. It’s quick—barely perceptible—but it’s there.
“I’m not allowed to speak about the other guests,” she says. The tray lands on a small table by the window with quiet precision. “Mr. Wolfe will answer your questions when he joins you.”
“I’m not hungry.” Another lie. My stomach betrays me with a low, aching growl at the scent of strong coffee and buttered pastry.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just nods like she’s heard it before. Like everyone says that in the beginning.
“As you wish.” She straightens, hands folded in front of her. Up close, she’s even younger than I thought. Slender wrists. A fading bruise on her forearm, half-hidden by the cuff of her sleeve. Her gaze lifts, finally meeting mine.
She doesn’t blink.
Not cold. Not cruel. Just—resigned.
“The bathroom has everything you’ll need. Fresh towels, toiletries. Mr. Wolfe requests you make yourself comfortable.”