The CEO's Rejected Wife And Secret Heir novel Chapter 183

Chapter 183: Chapter 183 – Final Showdown

Aria’s POV

Damien found me there few minutes later, because of course he did, and he sat beside me without asking anything.

"She’s not my mother," I said. "My real mother died giving birth to me." My voice was remarkably calm. "She was twenty-one, she was raped and she kept me anyway and she held me once."

Damien’s arm came around me.

"Her name was Catherine," I said.

"Catherine," he repeated.

I leaned into him and looked at the plain wall across from us. I had been loved before I had any ability to know it, loved in the most costly way possible by someone who had nothing left to give but did it anyway.

"I want to find her grave," I said eventually. "When this is over. I want to go."

"We’ll go," Damien said with no hesitation.

I closed my eyes and breathed. Outside, Charles Monroe was still out there, still moving and calculating.

But right now, I was sitting with the truth about who I was and where I had come from, and it was breaking me open in a way that felt, strangely, like being put back together.

My name was supposed to be Aria Whitmore Blackwood, and I had been loved before I had a name.

That was enough. That was, somehow, more than enough.

Barnes had a location by the following morning. The second phone number — the one that had taken longer to trace — belonged to a burner purchased weeks ago in a convenience store two miles from the penthouse.

The store had cameras. The cameras had footage and the man on the footage had a face, and the face, run through the FBI database, matched a low-level associate of the trafficking network Charles had contracted, a man named Renard who specialized in logistics and had a history of helping people disappear.

They lost him twice before they cornered the network’s safe house in the Eastport district — and found it empty, cleared within the last twelve hours, Charles apparently warned that the noose was tightening.

Barnes called us at six AM with the update, and I could hear in his voice the particular controlled frustration of a careful man watching something careful slip between his fingers.

"He’s moving," Barnes said. "Faster now. That means he’s escalating."

"He knows we’re close," Damien said.

"Which makes him more dangerous, not less." A pause. "I want you both to stay in the penthouse today. Both of you. Don’t"

"Barnes"

"I mean it, Damien. This is the point where people make mistakes because they’re angry and they want it to be over. Don’t be that person today."

Damien looked at me across the kitchen as I looked back.

"Understood," he said.

I lasted until two in the afternoon. Not because I was reckless — I understood Barnes’s reasoning, I had agreed with it at six AM and continued to agree with the logic of it. But at two o’clock Damien was on a call with the legal team about the ongoing merger documentation and Noah was asleep for his afternoon rest and the penthouse felt very small and the news that Barnes’s team had passed along via text — no movement, no sighting, working all leads.

I told the security detail I was going to my car for files I’d left in the boot. This was, technically, not untrue — I had left a folder of documents in the car a few days ago and kept forgetting to retrieve it.

The parking garage beneath the building was quiet in the mid-afternoon, two levels down, the particular concrete hush of underground spaces. My heels echoed as I crossed toward the car, and I was thinking about Catherine, as I had been thinking about Catherine almost constantly since yesterday — about whether there were photographs, whether Eleanor would know, whether I had the right to want to know more about a woman who had no say in how her story ended.

I heard him before I saw him.from behind a concrete pillar to my left, and every hair on my arms rose at once.

"Hello, Aria."

Charles Monroe stepped out from between two parked cars, and he looked disheveled in a way I had never seen him, his expensive suit creased and stained at the cuff, his hair no longer perfectly combed. He looked like a man who had been running and had finally decided he was done running, he was holding a gun.

I stopped walking as my heart rate spiked hard but I tried to steady myself. Think. You have time. Make him talk.

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