22. Aria
TWENTY-TWO
Aria
Damien Wolfe steps into the room.
He’s tall, well-built, with that same confidence that seems genetic in the Holbrook line. His suit is impeccably tailored, navy blue with a subtle striped pattern. He looks more like a CEO than a crime lord, but it’s his eyes that hold me frozen. The exact shade of steel-blue as my father’s.
As mine.
“Good morning, Aria.” His voice carries the faintest trace of an accent I can’t place. “I trust you slept well, all things considered.”
I say nothing, just watch him, and catalog the details.
The way he stands—weight evenly distributed, ready to move in any direction.
Military training or something similar. The watch on his left wrist—Patek Philippe, understated wealth.
The St. Christopher medal partially visible beneath his collar—unexpected religiosity from a man who traffics children.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt your meal.” He gestures to the breakfast tray.
“Where is Jon?” I keep my voice level.
“Mr. Knutt is unharmed.” He moves further into the room, maintaining a respectful distance. “I have no quarrel with Guardian HRS personnel. They’re simply doing their job.”
“And my father?”
“Marcus is another matter.” Something flickers across his face—too fast to identify.
The hesitation tells me more than the words. Whatever “truth” Wolfe wants to reveal, it centers on my father.
“Why am I here?” I set down the brush, turning fully to face him. “If this is about money?—”
“This has never been about money.” He cuts me off, voice hardening briefly before he controls it. “Please, sit. This conversation will be easier if we’re both comfortable.”
I remain standing. Small defiances matter in captivity—I learned that the first time.
He sighs, then moves to sit in an armchair near the window. The morning light catches his profile, highlighting the bone structure that mirrors my father’s. He’s not an unattractive man. Some might call him beautiful. Handsome even.
I struggle to categorize my thoughts and feelings about this man.
“I understand your reluctance.” He crosses one leg over the other, the picture of relaxed confidence. “But I’m not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite.”
“Kidnapping is a strange way to show concern for another person, and this is the second time you’ve taken me.”
“I prefer to think of this time as a family reunion. It’s long overdue, and I apologize for the first kidnapping. My intent wasn’t to cause you any harm.” His lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“And yet, you did.”
“A necessary inconvenience, and you have my apologies, but this is a family matter.”
“We’re not family.” The words come automatically, reflexively.
“Are you certain of that?” He studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly.
“What do you want from me?” A chill runs through me despite the room’s warmth.
“I want you to know the truth.” He leans forward, intensity bleeding through his composed exterior. “About who you are. About who Marcus is. About what happened to your mother.”
“My mother died when I was eight. It was an accident.” My mouth goes dry.
I remember standing in my father’s study, clutching my stuffed rabbit while he delivered the news in that clipped, clinical tone he used for boardroom briefings. “A tragic fall,” he said. “Quick. Painless. Nothing anyone could have done.”
No comfort. No visible grief. Just sterile words designed to close the door before I could even step through it.
When I asked how it happened—why she’d been walking down the stairs so late, or why no one heard her fall—he cut me off. “It’s time to move forward, Aria.” That tone. The one that made further questions feel like a threat.
Her funeral was closed casket. Her photos vanished from the walls within a week. Her name dissolved into silence like it had never existed.
Even then, something felt—off. The way the house went still around him. The way I learned to stop wondering.
It was easier that way.
Safer.
“Is that what he told you?” There’s genuine curiosity in his voice, as if my answer matters to him.
“That’s what happened.” But even to my own ears, the words sound hollow, uncertain.
“Sit, Aria.” His tone gentles. “Please. This isn’t a conversation to have standing.”
Against my better judgment, I perch on the edge of the bed, as far from him as possible while still in conversational range. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I keep my expression neutral. Another skill learned at Marcus Holbrook’s dinner table.
“Many years ago,” Wolfe begins, “I loved a woman named Rebecca Price.”
My mother’s maiden name. A name I’ve rarely heard spoken aloud.
“We were going to build a life together.” His gaze shifts to the window. “Until Marcus took her from me.”
“That’s not—” I stop myself. What do I know about my parents’ courtship?
Nothing but the sanitized version my father occasionally referenced. They met at a charity function. A whirlwind romance. Society’s perfect couple.
“Your father is not the man you believe him to be.” Wolfe’s eyes return to mine, searching. “And neither am I.”
“You’re a criminal.” The words come out sharper than intended. “You traffic children. You kidnapped me and intended to sell me to the highest bidder. I think I know more than enough to formulate an opinion about you.”
“Is that what you’ve been told?” Pain flashes across his features, genuine and raw.
“Told? It’s what happened. It’s what you are.” But an unwelcome uncertainty creeps in.
“Marcus always excelled at controlling narratives.” He rises slowly and moves to the closet. “Just as he’s controlled you your entire life. I was never going to sell you…”
He stands, crosses the space, and removes the blue dress from the closet, holding it with unexpected reverence.
“Your mother wore a dress like this the day I told her I loved her. A picnic in Golden Gate Park. She made sandwiches with the crusts cut off because she didn’t like crusts and said it made things fancy. ”
The specificity of the memory catches me off guard. This isn’t information he could have researched. This is personal knowledge and intimate details.
“She hated crusts,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. “She always cut them off my sandwiches too.”
His smile turns genuine for the first time. “She would sing while she made them. Fleetwood Mac. Dreams.”
Another detail that rings true. My earliest memories include my mother singing that song as she moved around the kitchen.
“How do you know these things?” My voice sounds small, even to me.
“Because I knew your mother.” He carefully returns the dress to the closet. “Better than Marcus ever did. And she knew me.”
I want to dismiss his words as manipulation, but they’ve found purchase in soil I didn’t know was fertile—longstanding questions about my mother, about her death, about the strange emptiness that always existed in my father’s carefully constructed world.
“What do you want from me?” I ask again, but the question now holds a different meaning.
“I want you to listen.” He moves toward the door. “I want you to ask questions. I want you to decide for yourself what’s true.”
“What have you done with Jon? With my father?”
“Interesting that you ask about the Guardian over your father. He’s special to you.”
“Will you use that against me?”
“I will use what I need to do what must be done, but all in good time.” He pauses at the threshold. “Rest today. Think about what I’ve said. Tonight, I’ll show you evidence that will change everything you know about your family.”
“I want to see Jon.” I stand, finding strength in concern for someone else. “I need to know he’s safe.”
“Your loyalty does you credit.” Wolfe studies me, something like approval warming his gaze. “He’s not injured, merely—inconvenienced; but I’ll consider your request.”
The door opens, revealing a guard outside, professional security rather than the tattooed thugs from the previous kidnapping.
“One more thing,” Wolfe says. “The blue dress. Your mother made it herself. The pattern was French lilac—her favorite flower. Marcus always told people it was roses.”
The door closes before I can respond, lock engaging with an audible click.
I sink back onto the bed, mind racing with implications I’m not ready to face. My hands tremble as I reach for the coffee cup, now cold.
Wolfe is manipulating me. Using personal details to build credibility before the larger lies come. He must be.
Because none of that can be true.
But how does he know about the lilacs? About the Fleetwood Mac song? About details, I myself had forgotten until he mentioned them?
I close my eyes, trying to focus on what matters. Jon is alive. My father, too. I’m not in immediate danger. I need to stay calm, gather information, and look for opportunities to escape.
But Wolfe’s parting words echo, impossible to dismiss.
My mother’s favorite flowers were lilacs, not roses. I remember the scent of them in our garden, the way she would bury her face in the purple blooms each spring.
Yet every year on her birthday, my father placed roses on her grave.