CHAPTER TWO
AURORA
Four hours earlier
––––––––
“T hank you. It will be beautiful.” I smile and squeeze the ball of tissues in my hand.
I finally cried.
I’m sure funeral directors are used to grief—there’s a box of tissues on every surface in his office—but I wasn’t expecting this to be the moment I finally allowed myself to cry.
Perhaps it’s because talking about her final resting place makes it all so much more real.
I had an interesting relationship with my mother, so it’s been a confusing few days coming to grips with her passing. I don’t miss her and feel a lightness now that she is gone, which took me by surprise. Like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
Like I have my life back.
What does that mean?
I was homeschooled and raised differently than most kids, but she wasn’t a smothering mother. Strict, yes. But if I had to describe her in one word, it would be mysterious.
Or secretive.
I do not know who my father is and now I never will.
I hate her for that.
God, here I am disrespecting her, even in death. After all she did for me. Ugh. Mary-Anne Whitlock’s words are still in my head.
After all I’ve done for you.
Does it make me a bitch when I can’t think of a single thing my mother did for me outside of what is expected of a parent? Are we born to praise and thank them for feeding us, loving us, providing for us?
It’s not wrong to be grateful for your parents or thank them, but the constant manipulation in that statement all my life has been...odd.
“You’ve chosen well. The oak is lovely.”
“Thank you.” I take the folder from the funeral director and head toward the door. The feel of the heavy paper in my hand is a reminder of all the lies and deceit that I’m going to bury next week.
How dare she not tell me she was sick? Six months ago, she’d had a stroke, and the second one had killed her.
I know why she never told me. Mom knew I’d push for answers, which she hated me doing. Any time, as a young girl, I began to ask anything, I was slapped across the face. That stopped when I was sixteen. I threatened to call the police.
Now she’s dead and everything she owns belongs to me. I will be searching through everything to find some of the answers I deserve.
At least I think it’s all coming to me. Her last will and testament is being read next week. I’m her only child, so who else is she going to leave her estate to?
What’s in the estate is also a mystery. She lived, for the past six years, in a large penthouse in Manhattan that I never knew she could afford.
We grew up in the suburbs of New York—at least an hour from the city—in a modest neighborhood. She told me she was an accountant. I don’t remember her ever going to work.
When I left home and she purchased the penthouse, I asked her about it. “You can’t afford this place, Mom. Are you crazy?”
“Aurora do not speak to me like that. I saved hard and was smart with my money. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. It’s none of your business.”
“Do you think I’m dumb?” I scoffed, having already searched online and discovered the apartment cost multiple seven figures.
“I think you’re a rude young woman. Focus on your studies and work out what you want to do with your life. You have no substance. No idea who you are.”
She knew that would hurt me.
Being homeschooled had isolated me. When I got to college, I was confronted with all my peers who had clear career paths and knew what they wanted. Not all. But most.
My mother always used that tactic when trying to steer me off the path when I questioned her.
“Mom, are you a criminal?” I’d finally asked about two years ago.
Her brows had risen to her hairline in surprise and a flicker of fear flashed across her eyes. Then rapidly disappeared.
But instead of getting angry, she laughed. Hard. Fake. And aggressively.
“Don’t be absurd, Aurora.” Mom turned her back on me and kept cackling. “Yes, sure. I’m in the mob. You and your imagination. Jesus Christ. Go home if you’re going to be childish. I don’t want to see you.”
I’d felt stupid, but still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
Was someone else paying for the penthouse?
It wasn’t just that. Her clothing budget and lifestyle had suddenly changed and she was living an extravagant life. The moment I moved out, everything changed.
Why?
So last weekend I hadn’t been able to stay silent any longer. She’d returned from a month in Morocco with friends and was tanned and talking about some foreign man she’d had a love affair with.
Yuck.
“Mom. How are you paying for this apartment?” I pressed.
“With money I earned.” She snapped and spun around to face me. Then pointed at my face. “You’re an ungrateful young woman. After all I did for you, now you accuse me of being a criminal. Get out of my face.”
Flinching, I grabbed my handbag and strode across the marble floor to the elevator. But I’d turned before it had opened and stared at her.
“You’ve been hiding things from me since I was born. One day I will find out,” I said softly.
“No.” Mom leaned her hip against the cream sofa and crossed her arms, almost proud and amused. “No, Aurora. You will not.”
That’s when I knew.
I was right.
Aside from keeping the identity of my father hidden from me, there were other lies and information she was keeping from me. After years of gaslighting me, with that one horrid smirk, she said a million things.
I had actually become hopeful that I was making progress. That eventually, and soon, she would tell me.
Now, all that hope is gone.
I’m left with a blank line on my birth certificate where my father should be and strange memories from my childhood that don’t make sense.
Faces I can’t put names to.
Things no one will explain to me.
Mary-Anne has taken the answers I seek with her to her grave.
Bitch.
Why don’t I have grandparents? No aunts. No cousins.
Why did she homeschool me? Why wasn’t I allowed to play with other children?
There were no play dates. I didn’t connect with other children. I wasn’t encouraged in the arts, music, sports, or anything else. I was kept in our house. In my room.
And told to be a good girl.
No wonder I have no fucking career direction.
I had my paper, pens, and paints. So, I drew and painted.
“Well, you’re not going to be the next Monet, so that’s a shame,” she once said.
Bitch.
Despite my lack of socialization, Mom had friends over. I heard the music and voices, the laughter. It sounded like so much fun, and I craved the interaction. So, I’d sneak downstairs and take long minutes to slowly open the door without being caught.
What I saw...
Well, I don’t remember much. Much of it blanked from my mind. Getting caught always earned me bad punishment, once whisked away.
But I do remember the boy with dark hair and scared blue eyes wearing small shorts and...nothing else.
At least he wasn’t the day he caught me staring at him.
I smiled, hoping he’d invite me to play, even though he was older than me. To this day, I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the absolute hate that greeted me. Those blue eyes turned almost black and, as a cold chill brushed over my skin, I had retreated and banged into the door.
Drawing attention to myself, I was yet again punished, but all I could focus on was the memory of those angry blue eyes.
Did children not like me?
Is that why I was kept at home?
Upon asking my mother, she said, “Perhaps if you behaved and didn’t do things I’ve asked you not to, other children would like you.”
I was confused.
Why did the boy get to hang out with the adults while I had to stay locked up in my room? No matter how good I was, I was never allowed to go to the parties.
Throwing a tantrum didn’t help, either.
Mom simply put a lock on my door and, while I didn’t know it at the time, I turned within and shut down emotionally.
Not completely. I have an amazing best friend and have dated a few men. But I know there’s crap I need to work out about myself. Mom’s death is either going to hinder or help me to do that. I don’t know which one yet and it’s very unsettling.
I tug a tissue from a well-placed box, even though my eyes are dry, and exit the funeral director’s office. When I get home, I’m go— Oomph.
I cry out in surprise as my palms flatten on a solid wall of muscle. Large hands grab my shoulders and steady me.
I glance up and—my god!—I almost stumble again at how gorgeous the man staring back at me is. A dark curly lock has fallen down onto his forehead and striking dark blue, almost navy, eyes glower as they narrow.
“Are you alright?” the man asks in a gruff tone.
I’m not going to lie; my ovaries start doing the tango. I’ve seen beautiful men like this in movies, in magazines, and on those Instagram model accounts. But never in person. He’s extremely polished but has a masculine roughness that immediately makes me feel feminine and like I should faint or something and hope he carries me back to his lair.
Tempted.
“Yes. I think.” I sniff and lift the tissue to my nose, hoping like god I don’t look as much of a mess as I suspect I do.
I might not have been bawling my eyes out, but I’m definitely not as pulled together as any woman would want when faced with such a hot guy.
Even so, you don’t kick yourself later.
He glances at the doorway I just walked out of, then back at me while his warm hands continue to hold me. I breathe in the tiniest of breaths, taking in his musky aftershave.
It’s expensive.
Call it a sixth sense, but I know this man is extremely wealthy. It could be the cut of his hair or the perfect growth on his jaw. Or perhaps the pristine white of his shirt under the clearly tailored navy jacket which fits his broad shoulders like a glove.
Or is it the confidence in which he holds himself?
There are a lot of wealthy people in New York City, but when you are a native like me, you can pick the difference between assumed wealth and real wealth.
“My condolences.” He takes a step back, almost looking reluctant to release me.
The loss of his warmth is so palpable I want to reach out and pull him back. Clearly I don’t, as that would be weird.
“You don’t know that I lost someone.” I smile, amused by his comment.
His lip twitches. “Funeral home. Tissues. Red eyes.”
Damn it, I knew I looked like crap!
“Are you a detective?”
“Are you always this defensive?”
“I’m grieving.”
“Then I was right,” he replies without flinching. “And you simply could’ve said thank you.”
My eyes drop and I can’t help the smile that forms.
“Do you need a ride?” the man asks, surprising me.
My face lifts. “Are you a serial killer?”
“Jesus.” He laughs, rubbing his jaw. “No. I just don’t want you to sue me for almost knocking you unconscious when I walked into you.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. He might be one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, but I’m not hopping in a car with a stranger. You don’t grow up in NYC without getting street smart real fast.
“You aren’t that buff,” I tease.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” He tugs on his jacket sleeves looking offended, then smirks at me and holds out a hand. “Parker Stone. Buff guy.”
This time I laugh. God, he’s funny. Buff, hot, and funny.
Someone pinch me!
Did I just meet the perfect guy walking out of the funeral home while planning to bury my mother? That seems something a Scorpio would do—my star sign.
I glance around, wondering what someone like him is doing in this area. Clearly I’m going to decline, but I don’t have to be rude.
“Aurora.” I hold out my hand. “I live just down the street so I can walk. Thank you, though.”
My head nods in the direction of my apartment while I hope he asks for my number . Parker Stone is way out of my league, but a girl can dream.
Parker shakes my hand, and when those blue eyes meet mine, with a mysterious twinkle in them, I feel a strange familiarity.
Do I know this man?
My lids lower as I search my memory, and just as I’m about to ask if we know one another, he threads his arm through mine and steers me down the sidewalk.
Completely taking control.
My body reacts, heat plowing through me, and I become aroused. It’s equally hot and a little unnerving. My body just automatically did what he led it to do.
Holy hotballs, Batman.
“I’ll walk with you. To make sure you don’t collapse.” Parker tells me, and that’s when I notice his bodyguard trailing a step or two behind us.
Wow.
Definitely wealthy.
It does make me feel safer though, so I don’t say anything and let him keep leading me toward my home. But I decide to keep teasing him, as I love the way he was bantering with me.
Hot and cheeky.
Chloe is going to die when I tell her about this.
“That’s what a serial killer would say.” I grin up at him and watch in wonder as Parker’s incredibly beautiful face breaks out into the biggest smile.
He laughs, staring straight ahead, like the powerful, confident man he is.