Chapter Six

The plane touched down with a dull thud, and Chicago stretched beneath me in steel and grey, sharp-edged and unfamiliar.

Good.

I stayed seated long after the seatbelt sign flicked off, fingers wrapped around the armrest as the cabin filled with movement and noise. People eager to get back to lives that still made sense. I waited until the aisle cleared, until the air felt less suffocating, then stood and reached for my bag.

No white dress.

No ghosts.

Just me.

The cold hit me the moment I stepped outside O’Hare, slicing through my coat like a reminder that this city wouldn’t coddle me. Wind whipped my hair loose from its bun, strands of red snapping against my cheek as I climbed into the waiting car Max had arranged.

The driver barely spoke. I appreciated that.

Downtown Chicago rose ahead of us, all glass towers and sharp lines, the kind of city that didn’t ask permission. I watched it approach through the tinted window, pulse steady, shoulders squared. This wasn’t a retreat. It was a reset.

The car stopped in front of a temporary rental Max had booked for the week. Clean. Minimal. Impersonal. I dropped my bags, splashed water on my face, changed into a black suit—tailored, familiar—and was back in the car within thirty minutes.

The realtor’s office was downtown, all polished concrete and soft jazz humming beneath conversation. A woman in her early forties greeted me with a professional smile that sharpened when I said my name.

“Aurora Hayes,” she repeated. “We’ve prepared several options within your parameters.”

“Show me the quiet ones,” I replied. “High security. Minimal neighbours.”

Her smile widened. “I think I have exactly what you’re looking for.”

We walked. Then drove. Then walked again.

Each place blurred into the next—too open, too warm, too full of life I didn’t want to see yet. I rejected them all with polite efficiency.

Until the last one.

The car slowed in front of a towering building of dark glass and steel, its presence commanding without being loud. No decorative flourishes. No unnecessary warmth. Just precision.

I stepped out onto the pavement and looked up.

It felt… still.

“This is one of our most exclusive listings,” the realtor said beside me. “Top-tier security. Private elevators. Soundproofed floors. Mostly long-term residents.”

I nodded once. “Who owns it?”

She glanced at her tablet. “An investment group.”

That was enough.

Inside, the lobby was expansive and hushed, the kind of quiet that came from money, not emptiness. Marble floors. Subtle lighting. A doorman who clocked everything without making it obvious.

I didn’t miss the way people straightened as I passed.

The elevator ride was silent. Smooth. When the doors slid open, the hallway beyond was immaculate, carpet plush beneath my heels, walls muted in warm grey.

The apartment itself was… unsettling.

Not because it was unfamiliar.

Because it wasn’t.

Neutral tones. Clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river. The kitchen layout was identical to the one I’d saved a dozen times on P*******t and never shown anyone. Even the study faced the exact angle of light I preferred in the afternoons.

I walked through slowly, fingers brushing the counter, eyes narrowing.

“This was staged recently,” the realtor offered quickly. “We aim for—”

“No,” I said quietly. “It’s fine.”

The bedroom stopped me.

Wide. Minimal. The windows framed the skyline perfectly, the city stretched out like a promise that didn’t ask anything of me. The closet was empty, waiting.

I turned back to her. “I’ll take it.”

She blinked. “Ms. Hayes, you haven’t asked about—”

“I’ll take it,” I repeated, voice calm, decisive. “Send the paperwork to my assistant.”

She recovered quickly, nodding. “Of course.”

The signing was quick. Clean. No hesitation. When I handed back the pen, something in my chest loosened, just slightly.

This place didn’t belong to anyone I knew.

That mattered.

By the time I returned to the building with my suitcase, evening had settled in. The lobby lights were dimmer now, the city outside reflected faintly in the glass.

As I waited for the elevator, my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I stared at it for a moment, then declined the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

The elevator doors slid open.

I stepped inside alone, the doors closing with a soft, final sound. My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored wall—sharp suit, steady eyes, red hair loose now, framing a face that looked older than it had a week ago.

The car ascended smoothly, numbers ticking upward.

When the doors opened to my floor, the hallway lights flickered on automatically, illuminating the path to the apartment at the end.

I walked toward it, heels echoing softly, keycard cool between my fingers.

The door unlocked with a quiet click.

I stepped inside, set my suitcase down in the entryway, and closed the door behind me.

The lock slid into place.

Solid. Secure.

Mine.