Page 17 of The Hunter
As I watched them wheel my mother back inside the building that looked more like a luxury villa than a memory care facility, I was unable to shake the unsettled feeling forming in my stomach.
The hallucinations always came and went like waves, each one leaving her a little more adrift. I’d learned not to let them unsettle me too much. They were just a part of her disease.
But as the sun disappeared behind a passing cloud and the warmth on my skin was replaced by a sudden shiver, I couldn’t help the unease trickling down my spine.
Because something in her voice, in her eyes, didn’t feel like a hallucination.
It felt like a warning.
Chapter Eight
Ariana
The house was quiet.
Blessedly, wonderfully quiet.
No voices echoing down the high-ceilinged halls. No polished shoes pacing across imported tile. No men in suits murmuring about politics or stock portfolios. No Victor.
Just silence.
I stepped out of my heels in the sun-drenched foyer, letting them fall beside the console table with a soft thud. The marble floor was cool beneath my bare feet, smooth and clean. Outside, the faint cry of gulls drifted in through the open terrace doors, accompanied by the briny scent of sea air and something floral. Frangipani, maybe. Or the hibiscus that always managed to bloom no matter the season.
The tension in my shoulders began to loosen. Not all at once. But enough.
For the next few days, I wouldn’t have to perform. Wouldn’t have to paste on a smile or laugh at the right moment or play the role of Victor’s perfectly polished wife.
I could be me again. The girl I was before he dressed me up in diamonds and promises.
I could be Ariana Summers.
Even if only for a little while.
I made my way up to the bedroom, exchanging my dress for the familiar comfort of an old black t-shirt and faded jeans, keeping the decorative scarf in case anyone saw me.
After tugging on a pair of sneakers, I checked my appearance, smiling at the reminder of the girl I used to be staring back, especially now that I wore something I typically didn’t. Something Victor would never approve of.
But he wasn’t here to tell me no. I could do whatever I wanted.
And right now, I wanted nothing more than to spend time in the garden. To press my hands into the earth and remember that life could still bloom even in the darkest of times.
The breeze off the bay greeted me as I stepped outside, gentle but insistent, tugging at my hair and carrying the scent of salt, orchids, and damp greenery. The landscape behind the estate was manicured and pristine, all clean lines and clipped hedges. Victor’s idea of perfection.
But tucked in the far corner of the property, partially hidden behind palms, was my garden. My secret. It wasn’t landscaped. It wasn’t curated. It was wild and unruly and wholly mine.
Beyond it, Biscayne Bay shimmered, sunlight dancing across its surface like scattered gold. A heron stood ankle-deep in the shallows, unmoving, as if carved from marble.
The air was cooler and drier now that it was January, but it wasn’t cold. I knelt beside the raised beds of my garden, brushing aside a few fallen leaves. The soil was damp and fragrant, alive with the scent of promise.
This garden never slept the way northern ones did.
It just quieted. Waited. But life never stopped here. It pulsed beneath the surface, waiting for something or someone to coax it out.
I exhaled, letting my fingers dig deeper, past the mulch and vine roots, into the heartbeat of the earth. It calmed me. Reminded me that not everything had to look alive to be alive.
Victor would never understand that. He wanted perfection, fast and polished. Orchids in full bloom. Bougainvillea with no thorns.
To him, the process was irrelevant. Only the result mattered.
