Page 10 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
I return to the main house, to the bedroom that overlooks the same gardens where I first realized I wanted her. Full circle, as all the best stories are. Tomorrow night, she'll think she's coming to fight for my son. She has no idea she's walking into a trap three years in the making.
But not a trap, really. A rescue. Because what kind of life would she have without me? Struggling through medical school with crushing debt, settling for research positions that don't challenge her brilliance, accepting whatever scraps of affection weak men like my son might offer.
I'm offering her paradise. All she has to do is accept that paradise comes with a price. Complete and utter surrender to the man who's willing to move heaven and earth to possess her.
As I prepare for bed, I catch myself looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face that stares back at me is composed, controlled—the face of a man accustomed to getting what he wants. But beneath that mask is hunger I've never experienced before, an obsession I can no longer control even if I wanted to. And I don't want to. Not anymore.
For a brief moment, vulnerability creeps in—not for Dmitri or his broken finger, not for my son and his impending loss, but for myself. What if, after all this planning, all this manipulation, she still rejects me? What if the connection I felt was one-sided, a product of my own desires rather than mutual attraction?
I dismiss the thought as quickly as it forms. I've never failed at anything I truly wanted, and I want Kyra Sinclair more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
Tomorrow, I claim my prize.
Chapter three
Kyra
The black sedan arrives at exactly two o'clock. No friendly family driver with casual conversation, and more importantly, no Aaron. Just a silent man in an expensive suit who takes my luggage without a word and holds the door open like I'm royalty instead of a heartbroken college student.
"Where's Aaron?" I ask before getting in.
"Mr. Aaron Strickland asked me to tell you he's driving up separately," the driver says, his tone neutral. "Last-minute Christmas shopping that couldn't wait. He'll meet you at the cabin."
I open my mouth to ask more questions, but the driver has already closed the door and moved to the driver's seat. I lean forward when he gets in.
"Did Aaron tell you when he'd arrive? I'd like to know what to expect."
The driver's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror before looking away. "Mr. Strickland didn't specify. I only know what I was instructed to tell you."
Something in his measured response makes my skin prickle. I pull out my phone and tap Aaron's contact. The call connects, rings once, twice, then goes straight to voicemail—as if he declined the call.
Are you really coming? Please be honest with me.I text instead.
The message shows as delivered but not read. I wait five minutes, then try again.
If you've changed your mind about us, just tell me. Don't make me drive all the way up here for nothing.
This message also delivers without being read. I try calling one more time, and again it rings twice before disconnecting.
"Reception gets spotty as we head into the mountains," the driver comments, though I haven't said anything. "Mr. Strickland mentioned you might try to reach his son. Best to wait until you're at the cabin—there's a landline and satellite internet."
I nod but don't put my phone away. Instead, I pull up my recent call list and tap on Beth's contact. It rings a full six times before going to voicemail. So my phone is working fine. It's Aaron who's avoiding me.
The leather interior smells like money. I feel out of place in my worn jeans and practical winter coat. This is Victor's world—quiet luxury that makes my secondhand everything feel shabby.
The gifts I've wrapped sit beside me on the seat—a limited edition vinyl of Aaron's favorite band that I'd found at a secondhand record store, a bottle of mid-range scotch for Victor as a thank-you for his hospitality, and a silver ornament engraved with this year's date that I'd hoped would become the first in a collection of "our Christmases together."
Now the gifts feel pathetic. Evidence of dreams that might already be dead.
As the car leaves Boulder behind and begins climbing into the mountains, my mind drifts back to a family dinner at the Strickland estate one year ago.
***
"Medical research should be funded based on impact, not profitability," Victor said, swirling whiskey in his crystal tumbler as he watched me across the table.
We were alone in the dining room, Aaron having excused himself to take a call. It was the third time that evening he'd left me alone with his father.
"That's easier said than done," I replied, trying to sound casual despite Victor's intense gaze. "Grant committees want guaranteed results, and pharmaceutical companies want patents."
