REVENGE MADE ME HIS

Chapter 13 : Chairs and Bloodlines

The ride to the prison was long enough for Aria to count the cracks in the sky.

Pale light spilled over the highway in thin, reluctant streams, painting the asphalt in shades of gray. She didn’t open the window. The air smelled like rain, but it also smelled like endings, and she’d had enough of those for one lifetime.

The closer she got, the more the world seemed to dull. Color bled out of the horizon until everything felt washed out, like she was stepping into another kind of weather—one that clung to the skin and weighed on the chest.

Six years.

Six years since the trial, the cameras, the verdict that cut through her father’s life like a blade.

Six years since she’d seen him in person.

The guards at the front gate barely looked at her ID before waving her through the first checkpoint. The sound of metal sliding against metal echoed, sharp and final. She walked through the scanner, her bag left behind, and followed a female guard down a corridor that smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale air.

Every step brought her closer to him.

Every step reminded her why she was here.

⸻

They put her in a small visitation room, separated by a thick pane of scratched glass. The plastic chair was cold under her, and the metal phone on the wall looked older than she was.

When the far door opened, she felt her breath catch before she even saw him.

Her father stepped in, led by another guard. The orange jumpsuit hung loose on him now, his once-broad shoulders a little smaller, his hair more salt than pepper. But his eyes—those same steady hazel eyes—found her instantly.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then he gave her the smallest of smiles.

Aria picked up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”

His fingers curled around the receiver on his side, and for a moment, his gaze just rested on her face, like he was memorizing it. “You cut your hair.”

“A while ago,” she said softly.

“It suits you.” His voice was exactly as she remembered—deep, with that quiet, grounding timbre—but it carried something new now. A fatigue that came from years of cement walls and steel bars.

“You look… different,” she admitted.

He chuckled without much humor. “That’s prison for you.” Then, his expression shifted, just slightly. “But you—you look like you’ve been carrying something heavy.”

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t come here to ease into it, but suddenly, the words didn’t want to leave her mouth. She lowered her gaze, fingers curling in her lap.

“Aria?”

She inhaled. “I’m pregnant.”

The pause on the line was so long she thought the phone had gone dead. His hand flexed on the receiver, but his face remained composed, the way it always had when life tried to corner him.

Finally, he said, “Whose?”

She swallowed. “Dominic Thorne.”

Something passed through his eyes—a flicker of recognition, then steel, then something heavier. “Victor’s son.”

She nodded once.

He sat back slightly, his jaw tightening. “You know what those people are, Aria. Reckless. Dangerous. They take what they want and leave ruin behind.” His voice was still gentle, but the exhaustion was there, like the warning cost him something to say.

“I know,” she said quietly.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t think you do. You were too young to see the worst of them. Victor smiles for the cameras, but I saw the man he really is. I saw the deals he made and the people he buried along the way.” His gaze sharpened. “You remember what he did to me.”

Her fingers clenched tighter around the phone. She remembered every detail—the headlines, the accusations, the way the world had turned on her father as if the truth didn’t matter. She remembered the smirk Victor had worn on the courthouse steps.

“I remember,” she said.

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “And now his son has you in his hands.”

“Not in his hands,” she said, meeting his gaze fully. “I won’t let him be.”

Her father studied her for a long moment. “So what are you going to do?”

The truth—I’m going to destroy them, all of them, from the inside out—sat heavy on her tongue. But she didn’t say it. She couldn’t. Not here, not when every word might be recorded, replayed, twisted.

Instead, she asked, “Should I keep it?”

That broke something in his expression. For the first time since he’d walked in, his eyes softened in a way that almost hurt to see.

“That’s not my choice to make,” he said quietly. “That’s yours. Yours alone.”

“But what if it’s a mistake?”

He gave a tired sigh, leaning his elbows on the small counter between them. “Every child deserves to be wanted. Every mother deserves the right to decide if she’s ready. But I’ll tell you this, Aria—don’t let fear be the only thing making your choice.”

She nodded slowly, looking down at her hands. “I’ve thought about it. And I’ve decided—Dominic will never know.”

Something in his gaze hardened again. “Good.”

Her brows lifted.

“You think a Thorne would love a child the way they should?” he asked, voice low. “You think Victor wouldn’t use that baby as a pawn in whatever game he’s playing? You keep that child safe, Aria. And if that means keeping them a secret, then you do it.”

Her chest tightened. “I will.”

For a moment, they just sat there in silence. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the space between them. She could see the lines on his face more clearly now, the years etched into his skin.

“How have you been?” she asked finally.

He smiled faintly. “Still breathing. Still thinking about the day I walk out of here.”

“That’s nine years from now.”

“I know,” he said, and she could hear the weariness in those two words, but also the flicker of something else. Hope, maybe. Or just stubbornness. “Until then, I get to talk to you, and that’s enough for today.”

Her throat ached.

“I wish I could stay longer,” she murmured.

“I know you do. But Aria—” His voice took on that quiet firmness she’d grown up with. “Watch your step. Around the Thornes. Around Dominic. Around everyone in that building. If you get too close, you won’t see the knife until it’s already in your back.”

She held his gaze, her own steady. “I’m watching.”

He searched her face for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “You’ve always been strong. Stronger than me, maybe.”

Her lips curved faintly. “I learned from you.”

The guard stepped in then, tapping his watch. Time was up.

She pressed her fingers against the glass, the closest she could get to touching him. He mirrored her, his palm dwarfing hers on the other side.

“I love you, kiddo,” he said quietly.

“I love you too, Dad.”

And then he was gone, the heavy door swallowing him, leaving her alone with the echo of his voice and the weight of his warnings.

⸻

When she walked out into the cold afternoon, the wind tugged at her coat. Somewhere in the distance, the sky was darkening again, clouds pulling in over the city.

She thought of Victor Thorne’s smirk. Of Dominic’s searching gaze. Of Nate’s careless grin.

She thought of the child growing inside her.

And she promised herself—on her father’s name—that no Thorne would ever lay claim to what was hers.