Page 96 of Rescuing Aria

All I need is time.

But how long? An hour? More?

Too long.

From down the hall comes the sound of chairs moving, crystal clinking. Dinner is starting. The “family reunion” Wolfe promised.

I move silently toward the dining room, every sense hyperalert. My bare feet make no sound on the polished floors. The knife’s weight is familiar against my hip. The gun sits ready in my hand.

The documents burn against my skin. Truth as a weapon. More devastating than any bullet.

Eight guards plus Wolfe. Bad odds.

I’ve faced worse.

TWENTY-SIX

Aria

The silencethat follows my question hangs in the air, thick and oppressive. Wolfe twirls his wine glass, the burgundy liquid catching the light like blood. His smile is that of a predator who knows his prey is cornered.

“Marcus has always been a master of appearances,” Wolfe says finally. “The perfect son. The perfect businessman. The perfect father.” He sets his glass down. “Perfection requires rigorous control, doesn’t it, brother?”

My father’s face betrays nothing, but his knuckles whiten where they grip the chair arms.

“Let’s continue our little history lesson.” Wolfe signals the nameless girl, who brings another folder to the table. Her movements are mechanical now, fatigue evident in the slight tremor of her hands. Wolfe doesn’t acknowledge her beyond a casual glance. She’s disposable, and that hurts more than anything so far. For a human being to be so—degraded. I’m in the company of a monster.

“Rebecca’s medical records,” Wolfe explains as the folder is placed before me. “From her private physician. A manwho mysteriously received a position at your father’s flagship hospital shortly after your mother’s—‘heart failure.’”

The insinuation lands like a physical blow. I can’t bring myself to open the folder. My fingers hover over its edge.

“More fabrications,” my father says, but there’s a new tension in his voice. “Rebecca had a congenital heart condition. It was tragic, but natural.”

“Open it, Aria,” Wolfe urges softly. “See what your father’s definition of ‘natural’ truly is.”

The girl has retreated to her position against the wall, but I catch her watching me from beneath lowered lashes. There’s something in her expression—a terrible understanding, perhaps. Or recognition. The look of someone who knows exactly what I’m about to discover.

I flip open the folder. Medical charts. Doctor’s notes. Photographs.

My breath catches. My mother on an examination table. Bruises bloom across her ribs in sickening purple-yellow patterns. Another image: finger marks around her throat. Another: a healed fracture noted on an X-ray of her wrist.

“Treatment for a fall down the stairs,” reads one notation. “Patient reports accident with kitchen cabinet door,” says another. “Patient declined to explain injuries,” a third states clinically.

A familiar pattern emerges across years of documentation. Injuries. Explanations that don’t match the trauma. A physician’s carefully worded concern, followed by a sudden transfer to another doctor.

“This is…” I can’t find words.

“They are lies,” my father says.

“They are the systematic destruction of a courageous woman,” Wolfe finishes. His voice has lost its mocking edge,replaced by something colder, harder. “Your mother was dying by inches, Aria. Long before her heart gave out.”

The chandelier light suddenly seems harsh, exposing. The crystal facets scatter light like accusing eyes across the room. The ornate wallpaper, with its intricate pattern, feels suffocating—luxury disguising the rot beneath.

“These could be anyone,” my father dismisses, but a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Doctored images. Forged records.”

“You’ve never denied being controlling, Marcus,” Wolfe continues as if my father hadn’t spoken. “You’ve simply rebranded it as protection. As love. The same way you’ve rebranded your entire existence.”

My father’s eyes narrow. “Coming from a man who traffics in human beings—in children—your moral outrage is somewhat laughable.”