Page 78 of Rescuing Aria

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.

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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…