21. Aria #2
I take a step forward, still holding the carafe tightly. “Comfortable? I’ve been kidnapped. I’m a prisoner.”
Her mouth parts as if to answer. Then she stops herself. Eyes flick—not toward the door. Not toward me. But toward the corner of the ceiling. Subtle. A single twitch of her gaze.
Then she looks back. Carefully blank. “Mr. Wolfe prefers the term guest .” Her voice dips, just a little. “He’ll explain everything shortly.”
I watch her. The tension in her frame. The perfect stillness of someone trained not to flinch, not to resist.
“There are no cameras in the bathroom,” she says, so softly it could almost be for herself. “You don’t need to worry about taking a shower.”
The implication chills me far more than a direct warning ever could.
Everywhere else—watched.
I study her face. “How long have you been here?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” She lowers her gaze.
“But you’re not here by choice.”
That makes her look up.
The stillness cracks. Not enough to draw attention from whatever surveillance monitors this room, but I see it—in the way her lips press tight, her throat swallows hard.
“Mr. Wolfe—can be a difficult master, but he’s not the worst. I’m lucky to serve him.”
The word master lodges like a shard of glass in my chest.
“Lucky? ” My heart bleeds for this poor soul.
“There are men—worse than him. Others I’ve seen. He doesn’t let them… Not here. Not with us.” She shudders—barely a tremor, like her body’s remembering something it wishes it could forget.
Us.
How many girls?
She lifts her chin, and for the first time, there’s something fiercely defiant behind the quiet mask. A kind of brittle pride. She’s survived. She’s still surviving.
“What’s your name?”
Another subtle glance toward the ceiling.
“I have none.” A pause. Then, under her breath, “But thank you for asking.”
She moves toward the door, keeping her back straight, every step rehearsed.
“Is there anything else you require, Miss Holbrook?”
“My freedom. A phone. Information about my companions.”
She hesitates, hand on the knob.
“I’ll let Mr. Wolfe know.” Her voice softens again. “He’ll be with you shortly.”
The door closes with a mechanical click. The lock engages.
And I’m alone.
I set down the carafe, hands trembling—not just from adrenaline, or the last shadows of whatever Wolfe used to drug me—but from something deeper. That girl had no bruises on her face. No torn clothes. Nothing visible.
But she’s a prisoner, like me.
A polished, well-trained, quietly broken girl.
And now I can’t stop thinking about her.
I approach the tray she left behind with caution, examining the food without touching it. No obvious signs of tampering, but that means nothing. The coffee smells rich and tempting after the chemical taste that still lingers in my mouth.
Could it be drugged? Possibly. But if Wolfe wanted me unconscious, why bother with the pretense? The gas worked efficiently enough.
I pour a small amount of coffee and sip cautiously. The flavor explodes across my tongue—expensive, perfectly brewed. My body craves the caffeine, the normalcy of the ritual.
As I drink, I take stock of my situation.
I’ve been kidnapped by my father’s half-brother, a man who should be dead. I’m being held in luxury rather than squalor. Jon and my father are somewhere in this building—or perhaps not. The woman’s comment about “other guests” suggests they’re alive, at least.
Wolfe wants me to know some “truth” about my family. Given his criminal enterprise, this is likely psychological warfare, an attempt to turn me against my father.
And yet…
I glance again at the blue dress hanging in the closet. An exact replica of my mother’s favorite. How would he know that? What else might he know about her that I don’t?
I’ve spent my life in my father’s world. His rules. His expectations. His version of our family history. The candle shop was my first real act of independence, and even that came with strings attached—my money, but his conditions, his constant reminders of how it reflects on the Holbrook name.
Jon saw through my father almost immediately. I dismissed his concerns as professional paranoia, but now…
The coffee turns bitter on my tongue.
I need to escape. Find Jon. But first, I need information. And Damien Wolfe seems eager to provide it. I don’t know that, but the young girl—young woman—said he wants to speak with me.
The question is whether I’m prepared for what I might learn.
I set down the cup, suddenly cold despite the room’s perfect temperature. My father has always been controlling, demanding, and critical, but he’s still my father. The only family I have.
“It’s time you learned the truth about your father.”
Wolfe’s words echo in my mind, carrying a weight I can’t ignore. There was something in his eyes when he looked at me. Something beyond the satisfaction of a kidnapper. Something almost like—recognition.
I shake off the thought. This is what he wants—to make me doubt, to make me vulnerable. Classic manipulation tactics. I won’t fall for it.
I move to the bathroom, splash more cold water on my face. The woman was right about one thing. I need to gather my strength and clean up. Whatever game Wolfe is playing, I need to be clear-headed to counter it.
The shower controls are intuitive despite their complexity. Hot water pounds against tense muscles, washing away the lingering scent of the sedative gas. I use the provided shampoo—the same brand I use at home, another unsettling detail, and try to focus on practical matters.
The room has no obvious escape routes. The door is secured from the outside. The windows won’t open and are too strong to break. I’m at least twenty feet above ground level, with no ledges or nearby trees.
I’ll need to get out of this room. That means either overpowering someone when they enter or convincing them to take me elsewhere. Given the level of security I’ve seen, the latter seems more probable.
Which means I need to play along with whatever Wolfe has planned. At least for now.
I step out of the shower and dry off with the monogrammed towel. My black dress from last night is gone—removed while I was in the bathroom. The message is clear: wear what’s been provided or wear nothing.
I examine the closet options again, deliberately avoiding the blue dress that so resembles my mother’s. Instead, I select black pants and a simple white blouse. Casual but dignified. Clothes, I can move in if an escape opportunity presents itself.
They fit perfectly. Of course they do.
I’m brushing my hair when the door unlocks again. This time, I don’t reach for a weapon. I turn slowly, brush still in hand, composing my features into the mask of calm I’ve perfected at a thousand society functions.