Page 24 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
The massive cabin falls silent after Victor leaves, the growl of his Range Rover fading into the distance as he heads toward Denver. I stand in the doorway for a long moment, watching the space where his car disappeared among the snow-laden pines.
Alone. I'm truly alone for the first time since I arrived.
My first thought is Aaron. Will he arrive while Victor is gone? Part of me hopes so—a private conversation without his father's watchful presence would make everything simpler. But another part dreads the confrontation, the explanations, the emotional labor of rebuilding what we lost.
I check my phone again out of habit, though I know there's still no signal. The screen shows the same photo of Aaron and me from last summer, his arm around my shoulders, both of us laughing at some forgotten joke. We look happy. Were we? Or was I just too focused on my research and classes to notice the distance growing between us?
I close the door against the cold and move to the windows, scanning the snow-covered driveway. No sign of approaching vehicles, no indication that Aaron is anywhere near. Just pristine white stretching to the tree line, beautiful and isolating.
The practical part of my brain knows I should use this time alone to explore, to gather information about my situation. But first, I need to try again to reach the outside world.
I search the kitchen for a landline phone. Nothing. The living room reveals no communication devices either. In the small mudroom off the kitchen, I find a cabinet that might house utility equipment. When I open it, I discover a sophisticated-looking panel with switches and indicators—the cabin's systems controls. Power, water, heat... and internet.
So there is connectivity here. But not for me.
With renewed determination, I begin a methodical search of the cabin. The main floor is open concept—kitchen flowing into dining area flowing into a living room centered around a massive stone fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the stunning mountain view, making the space feel both vast and intimate.
I notice details I missed upon arrival. The kitchen is equipped like a professional chef's domain. The living room furniture, while appearing rustic, is clearly custom-made. Even the throw blankets casually draped over armchairs feel expensive against my fingers.
Nothing here is accidental. Everything has been chosen with exquisite care, from the artwork on the walls to the books arranged on coffee tables. I pick one up—a biography of Marie Curie, one of my scientific heroes. A coincidence? Unlikely, given everything else I've seen.
Moving upstairs, I find the door across from my bedroom is closed—Victor's room, presumably. I hesitate for only a moment before trying the handle. Locked, of course. The master suite remains off-limits.
Four more doors line the corridor, all slightly ajar. I peek into each one.
A guest bedroom, tastefully decorated but impersonal. A small home gym with state-of-the-art equipment. A linen closet stocked with towels softer than anything I've ever touched.
And then—the study.
I push the door open wider, my breath catching at what I find. Unlike the rustic-luxury aesthetic of the rest of the cabin, this room is all sleek modernity. Two high-resolution monitors sit connected to a computer more powerful than anything I've ever used. A professional-grade scanner, a printer that probably costs more than my car, and an ergonomic chair that adjusts with whisper-quiet precision when I sit.
But it's what lines the walls that truly surprises me—bookshelves filled with medical texts, scientific journals, and academic publications. Many focused specifically on cardiac research—my field. I run my fingers along the spines, recognizing titles I've only seen in university libraries.
Why would Victor Strickland, a man who manages international shipping and investments, have a collection of specialized medical journals? How does the father of my ex-boyfriend know exactly what research materials would capture my interest?
The answer is both flattering and terrifying: he's been watching me, studying me, learning what matters to me. For how long?
I turn on the computer, unsurprised when it boots without requiring a password. Another calculated move—giving the illusion of trust while knowing exactly what I'll find.
The desktop background is a view of the mountains, probably taken from this very cabin. The browser is open to what appears to be a customized portal with access to research databases I've only dreamed of. Studies hidden behind paywalls, articlesrequiring institutional credentials I don't have, data sets that could revolutionize my understanding of cardiac regeneration.
I think of how Victor spoke about my research this morning—the respect in his voice, his insistence that minds like mine deserve proper resources. He clearly set this up specifically for me.
For a moment, pure academic excitement overwhelms my suspicion. My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to dive into research I'd normally never be able to access.
I glance toward the corner of the room where I spot a camera. Unlike the one I covered in my bedroom yesterday, this one isn't hidden. It sits openly on a bookshelf, its lens reflecting the afternoon light. A statement, not a secret. He wants me to know I'm being observed.
I feel a strange thrill. Let him watch. Let him see how quickly I adapt, how thoroughly I'll use the resources he's provided. But first, I need to check if I can contact the outside world. I need to know if I'm truly as isolated as I feel.
I minimize the research portal and open a new browser tab. I try Gmail first. The loading icon spins endlessly before an error message appears: "Connection failed." I try Facebook, Twitter, my university portal, even the simple Google homepage. Nothing connects.
Yet when I return to the research portal, it works perfectly—loading journal articles and data sets without hesitation.
Interesting. The system allows access to academic databases but blocks regular websites. It's a custom-built network, designed to give me exactly what Victor wants me to have and nothing more.
I move to the window, staring out at the snow-covered landscape. Is there a neighbor close enough to reach on foot? The nearest cabin I saw on our drive up was at least two milesaway, maybe more. In this snow, without proper gear, that journey would be dangerous at best, potentially fatal at worst.
I'm not a prisoner, I remind myself. Victor will return. Aaron might arrive. This isolation is temporary.
