Page 81 of Rescuing Aria

“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 wordmasterlodges 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.