The leather doors of the sedan locked with a dull, final thud, sealing Aurora inside a space that smelled faintly of cedarwood and cold amber. She hadn't fought the driver when he pulled away from the curb outside Le Mirabelle. She hadn't screamed when Adrian’s hand locked around her wrist, his thumb branding her pulse point with silent ownership. She had sat in stiff, trembling silence all the way back to the estate, knowing that every breath she took was monitored, every ally she tried to cultivate systematically dismantled by a man who treated her life like his personal chessboard. By sunrise, the illusion of escape had been burned away by cold reality. When the glass-walled conference room on the forty-second floor of the Ashford Tower came into focus a few hours later, Aurora felt hollowed out—yet sharper, harder, and burning with a cold, desperate fury. Outside, rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass, turning the Manhattan skyline into a watercolor smudge of slate
Last Updated : 2026-09-17 Read more