Page 168 of Hidden Echoes

"It means you’ll be mine again, Two," he replies, his voice dropping into something darker, something that makes my spine stiffen.

I can’t exactly say what this man did to me while I was unconscious, but my body remembers.

It doesn’t like his presence. It doesn’t like the feeling of being controlled by someone who sees me as nothing but a piece to manipulate.

Breathe, Mia.

His laugh when he notices my clenched fists sends a chill through me. I never was fully aware of the things they did to me.

I walk from the garden to the living room, ignoring him, but he insists on staying close, as if my silence means anything to him.

Maybe if I kill him, I could have a few minutes of peace—just enough to breathe.

But then I remember Katie. I don’t know where she is, but I know it’s foolish to anger my father now, especially with him returning to the States.

He’s always content to let me rot in some forgotten corner of his world. So why this sudden need for attention? I can count on one hand the number of times my father bothered to have dinner with me.

Sometimes with James, sometimes not at all—just leaving me to Paulina, to do as she pleased, as long as I didn’t make a mess of things.

He wouldn’t kill me, no. He’d just keep me locked away, tucked into a drawer, for when he needed to pull me out like some obedient puppet.

That’s all I’ve ever been to him.

No wonder I created such a perfect, endless universe in my head.

"I appreciate your concern in being my guardian," I reply coldly, my voice dripping with forced diplomacy. "Perhaps that’s something you should bring up to my father." I turn and head for the table, my steps deliberate.

Dr. Icaza follows me, but he stays at a distance. I glance around and see unfamiliar faces. Paulina and Cole are conspicuously absent, which only raises my curiosity.

I move toward my room with a sense of urgency, my heart a little heavier with each step. The closet door opens, and the soft fabric of my dresses brushes my fingertips as I search for something that might bridge the gap between me and the world I’ve lost.

Then, I see it—a yellow dress. Elegant, flowing. The color soft but bright, like sunlight breaking through a storm. I remember the dream. I remember how warm it felt, how real, like something was within my reach. I ache to slip back into that universe, to wear this dress like a second skin, to feel some semblance of that fleeting freedom.

I let the dress fall over my shoulders, its softness grazing my skin. For a moment, I almost feel it—the illusion, the warmth, the comfort of something I can’t have. I look at myself in the mirror, the yellow of the dress lifting something inside me—something deep, something desperate. But it’s just that—a desperate attempt to recreate something that never was.

I steady myself with a deep breath, smoothing the fabric down, and head toward the dining room.

The house feels different now. The air is heavy, suffocating, as though it holds every memory of everything that’s been taken from me. I pause at the doorframe, my fingers grazing the wood before I push it open. And there he is—Dr. Easton Icaza—seated at the dinner table like he belongs, like his presence doesn’t taint the entire room.

I freeze. For a split second, the yellow dress feels out of place, like I’m wearing a mask—pretending to be someone I’m not, trying to outrun something that’s always lurking in the background. But I smooth the fabric down and swallow back the disgust, forcing myself to walk toward the table.

I sit, careful not to let my revulsion slip through. I can feel his eyes on me, calculating, weighing every movement, every word. I keep my expression neutral, hiding everything beneath a smile I’ve worn too many times before.

“Good evening, Doctor,” I say, my voice steady, though everything inside me is screaming to run, to lash out at the twisted reality around me.

“Good evening, Miss Riviera,” he replies smoothly, his gaze lingering just a bit too long. I feel the weight of it, like he’s searching for a crack in the mask I’m wearing, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Then, my father arrives, and the room falls silent. What happens next is nothing like I expect. He smiles at me.

I stand frozen, waiting for the usual rejection—the moment when he’ll notice my presence just long enough to dismiss me. But this time, he smiles.

“I’d like to have dinner with only my daughter tonight,” he says to the men at the table. Confusion ripples through the room. Dr. Icaza is the first to speak up.

“I thought we were discussing Mia’s treatment moving forward.”

My father meets his gaze with cold, gray eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that. You won’t be in charge of the decisions.”

Dr. Icaza looks stunned, but my father repeats himself with a finality that sends a chill down my spine. “Like I said, I want to spend time with my daughter. The only one I have left.”

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