Page 25 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
So why does it feel like the walls are closing in?
I return to the main floor and stand by the front door, my hand on the knob. I could just walk out. Follow the road down the mountain until I reach civilization or at least a spot with cell reception. But the rational part of my brain calculates the risks: subfreezing temperatures, possible snow squalls, the approaching evening darkness, wildlife, my inadequate clothing, no food or water.
I drop my hand from the doorknob, defeated by practical reality.
Back upstairs, I return to the computer and dive into the research databases. If I'm stuck here, I might as well use the resources available to me.
For the next few hours, I lose myself in articles that would normally be inaccessible, downloading papers on stem cell applications and cardiac regeneration techniques. My fingers fly across the keyboard, taking notes, following citation trails, piecing together methodologies that could transform my own work.
But the analytical part of my brain—the part that got me through organic chemistry with the highest grade in the class—keeps interrupting with uncomfortable questions. Why does a private study in a remote cabin have institutional access to databases that even my university can't afford? What kind of connections would grant Victor this level of academic access?
I lean back in the chair, forcing myself to think objectively. The facts arrange themselves like compounds in a reaction chain:
Victor has orchestrated this elaborate setup specifically for me. Everything here is tailored to my exact research interests.This level of preparation had to start long before Aaron broke up with me. Therefore, Victor has been watching me, planning this, for months or longer.
I shake off the thought and return to the cardiac regeneration studies, but now I'm looking for something specific. If I can find a recent breakthrough that Victor wouldn't know about, something I could use to test whether his interest in my research is genuine or merely a sophisticated trap...
An hour later, I have what I need. A paper published last week on novel applications of CRISPR technology for heart tissue regeneration. Groundbreaking work that connects directly to my research but uses terminology only someone with specialized knowledge would understand.
After saving my notes, I move downstairs again, restless and anxious. I check the front windows for any sign of Aaron's car. Nothing but pristine snow and lengthening shadows as the afternoon wears on.
I find myself wandering through the cabin, examining photos, books, decorative objects—looking for clues about Victor Strickland, about his relationship with Aaron, about who he really is beneath the sophisticated facade.
There are surprisingly few personal items. A couple of framed photos of Aaron at various ages, but no family portraits that include a mother figure. No wedding photos, no evidence of a woman's touch anywhere in the decor. It's as if Victor has systematically erased any trace of Aaron's mother from their shared history.
I think about what Aaron told me of his parents' relationship—a cold, businesslike marriage that ended when he was in middle school. He rarely spoke of his mother, and now I wonder if that absence was his choice or his father's influence.
As evening approaches, I return to the front windows, peering out at the darkening driveway. Still no sign of either Strickland man.
A sudden, terrible thought occurs to me: what if neither of them comes back? What if this was Victor's plan all along—to leave me stranded, isolated, completely dependent on his return for my very survival?
No. That's paranoia talking. Victor will return, just as he said he would. The elaborate setup in the study, the gourmet food in the refrigerator, the careful attention to my preferences—none of that makes sense if abandonment was his goal.
But what is his goal?
The question haunts me as I move to the kitchen, searching for something to occupy my hands. I find ingredients for a simple pasta dish and begin cooking, the familiar process soothing my jangled nerves. As I chop vegetables and stir sauce, my mind circles back to Victor.
To the way he looked at me this morning, his gray eyes intense and focused as if I were the only person in his world. To the careful way he prepared breakfast, noting how I take my coffee without having to ask. To the brush of his fingers against mine when he handed me the mug, and the electricity that simple contact generated.
I shouldn't be thinking about Victor this way. He's Aaron's father. He's twenty-six years older than me. He's clearly manipulating this entire situation for reasons I don't understand.
And yet, I can't deny the pull I feel toward him. The way my body responds to his presence, the way my mind engages with his intelligence, the way he seems to see me in ways Aaron never did.
I'm so lost in these troubling thoughts that I don't notice the weather changing. It's only when I hear the distant rumble of anengine that I look outside and see fresh snow beginning to fall—thick, heavy flakes that promise another storm.
A car appears on the winding driveway, headlights cutting through the growing darkness and swirling snow. My pulse jumps—Aaron?—before I recognize Victor's Range Rover pushing through the accumulating whiteness.
Disappointment washes through me, surprising in its intensity. Despite everything, some part of me had still been hoping Aaron would arrive today, that we'd have a chance to talk things through, to see if anything could be salvaged from our relationship.
But it's not Aaron. It's his father, returning just as the weather turns treacherous again.
I don't hear the front door open over the wind that has picked up outside. Victor appears in the kitchen doorway, snow dusting his silver hair and the shoulders of his dark coat, his expression transforming from tension to warmth as he catches sight of me.
"You're cooking," he says, sounding genuinely pleased as he stamps snow from his boots.
"I got hungry," I reply, suddenly self-conscious about making myself at home in his kitchen. "I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? Kyra, everything here is at your disposal." He shrugs off his coat and moves beside me at the stove, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "It smells wonderful. I didn't know you cooked."
