Chapter Two:The walk of shame

The rain didn’t fall, it drizzled

Sideways, needle-sharp, the kind of New York storm that turns umbrellas inside out and makes strangers curse under their breath. Aurora Ryder and definitely “no, Voss, she reminded herself as if she'd lost her memory and was quick to snap herself right back.she stood on the curb outside Ryder Tower, one suitcase at her feet, crimson gown soaked through to the skin. The silk clung like guilt.

A paparazzo’s flash popped. Then another.

“Aurora! Over here! Any comment on the divorce?”

She didn’t move didn't even try to look in the direction of the paparazzi. Just raised her middle finger, slow and deliberate, and climbed into the Uber before the driver could ask twice.

The motel was off the BQE, neon sign flickering V-CAN-Y. The clerk didn’t look up from his phone. “Seventy-nine a night. Cash or card?”

She slid her black Amex across the counter. The machine beeped her card was declined

Of course Damien had frozen the joint accounts,he just had to she sighed..

She reached for her clutch. Found a ruffled hundred from the emergency stash she’d hidden in her tampon box where he would never had thought to look. The clerk handed her the keys only saying “room 312 on the the third floor”.The Elevator stinked of old fries and broken dreams.

Inside, the bed sagged in the middle. The carpet was the color of nicotine. She locked the door, deadbolt, chain, then leaned her forehead against the peeling paint and let the tears she had been holding in come. Not pretty crying. Ugly, hiccupping, snot-running-down-her-chin crying. The kind that leaves your ribs aching.

When it passed, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the pregnancy test. Still there. Still positive. She turned it over like maybe the lines would rearrange themselves into a no. They didn’t.

Her phone buzzed again ,and just as before there was a display of an Unknown Number

Check the safe in your mother’s old studio. Code: 0419. Don’t wait. – V. The same code as the text earlier

She’d ignored the first text in the elevator. This one felt heavier. Like a hand on her shoulder.

Her mother’s studio. Brooklyn. A place she hadn’t been since the funeral six years ago. She’d been twenty-two then, still believing love could fix anything. Her mother had died of a stroke or maybe just as the death certificate stated. No will. No inheritance. Just a stack of unsold canvases and a landlord who’d changed the locks.

Aurora showered in water that never quite got hot. The motel soap smelled like hospital corridors. She scrubbed until her skin was raw, trying to wash off the orchids, the truffle oil, the memory of Damien’s laugh. When she stepped out, the mirror was fogged. She wiped a circle with her fist and stared at the stranger inside.

Eyes swollen. Hair dripping. Stomach still flat, but something inside already shifting.

You’re in there, she said rubbing her belly with her hand .And I don’t even know your name she said while wiping off the drop of water that dropped on her belly button

She dressed in the only spare clothes she’d packed a black jeans, a hoodie two sizes too big the were Damien’s, stolen from the laundry months ago. It smelled faintly of his cologne. She buried her face in the sleeve, inhaled once, then ripped it off and turned it inside out.

Another Uber. 1:47 a.m.

The driver was chatty. “Rough night, huh? You famous or somethin’?”

She stared back at his eyes through the rearview. “Working on it.”she replied him

Brooklyn at 2 a.m. was all shadows and sodium light. The warehouse studio squatted between a bodega and a weed dispensary, brick tagged with faded murals. The key was still on her keyring she’d never thrown it away. It slid into the lock like it belonged there.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and turpentine. The Ray's of the Moonlight found it's way into the room through cracked skylights, painting the canvases in silver. Her mother’s work: abstract storms of color, faces half-formed, eyes that looked as if the followed you. Aurora’s breath fogged in the cold.

She found the portrait behind a stack of stretchers. Sixteen-year-old Aurora in oils her mother’s last piece before the stroke. The girl in the painting looked tired. Mouth soft, like she was about to apologize for existing.

The safe was bolted to the floor beneath it. Heavy. Industrial. The keypad glowed faintly.

0419.

Her birthday. April 19th.she opened the door causing it to hiss..

A flash drive in a velvet pouch.

A letter in her mother’s handwriting, folded twice.

A single keycard stamped VOSS TECH – EXECUTIVE ACCESS.

A Polaroid: her mother, younger, arm around a man Aurora didn’t recognize. Both smiling like they’d won something.

She unfolded the letter with shaking fingers.

My darling girl,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone and you’re hurting. I’m sorry. I lied about everything. The paintings were a cover. I built VossTech from nothing the AI that predicts market crashes before they happen.51% is yours. But the board will fight you. There’s a clause: you must marry within one year of my death, or the shares revert to them.

The man in the photo is Victor Kane. He’ll help. Trust him and do whatever you can to Protect what’s yours.

And Aurora—don’t let any man make feel small ever again.

Love always,

Mom.

Her knees felt stiff for a moment She sat hard on the concrete, letter clutched to her chest.

$12 billion.

A ticking clock.

A child on the way.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, a voicemail. Damien’s voice, slurred with scotch:

“Come home, Rora. We can fix this. I was angry. The baby—”she end the voicenote shocked she asked out loud 

He knew? How? As if talking to someone else

She deleted it. Blocked the number. Then opened the flash drive on her phone (password: her mother’s maiden name).

Files:

VOSS TECH – BOARD MINUTES

SHAREHOLDER PROXY FORMS

DAMNING EMAILS – D. RYDER (marked CONFIDENTIAL)

She scrolled. Stopped.

An email from Damien to the Ryder board, dated three months ago:

“Aurora’s useless. Keep her busy with charity galas. I’ll handle the real money.”

Her laugh echoed off the rafters sharp, broken, free.

She stood. Tucked the drive into her bra. Slipped the keycard into her pocket.

The portrait watched her leave.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The city smelled like wet asphalt and possibility.

She hailed a cab. Gave the driver an address she hadn’t said aloud in years: Victor Kane’s penthouse, Upper East Side.

As the cab pulled away, she pressed a hand to her stomach.

We’re not running anymore, little one. We’re hunting.getting to the Victor Kane's gatewate

Victor Kane’s doorman refuses her entry at 3:12 a.m. “Mr. Kane sees no one after midnight”.the doorman said but just then the intercom crackles:

“Let her up, Charles. The Queen has finally come home.”..