Chapter Thirteen
Aurora
I book the flight without thinking. Economy. One suitcase. Just because I have money doesn’t mean I need to spend it like crazy—especially considering that I have no idea what to do with my life anymore.
Everything after that feels like I’m watching someone else move my body.
How did I end up here? I don’t know.
The clouds outside the plane window look peaceful. I press my forehead to the glass until it fogs. For the first time in a long time, there’s nothing waiting for me when the plane lands. No rehearsal. No stage. Nothing. Twenty-four years old with no prospects.
By the time I land, I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve aged ten years in a day.
I drag my suitcase through customs, through the airport, out into the cold air. The cab ride to my aunt’s bakery feels endless.
When we finally pull up, I almost break. It takes me back to a time when I thought I had everything figured out.
I push open the door. My aunt appears from the back, flour dusting her hands.
“Aurora?” She rushes to me, arms wrapping around me before I can speak. She smells like vanilla and home.
“Mon Dieu, ma fille…” she whispers, holding my face between her palms and kissing my forehead. “You’re so thin… so tired…”
“I—I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You came to the right place,” she says.
We climb the narrow stairs up to the flat above the bakery. My suitcase feels heavy as I drag it inside, but my body feels heavier.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she says softly, pulling back the blankets. “You’ll think clearly tomorrow. Not tonight.”
I nod, too tired to argue. I sink into the mattress, still in my travel clothes.
“Don’t think anymore, ma chérie,” she murmurs before leaving. “Sleep now.”
I close my eyes, but I can’t help it—I reach for my phone. It’s been off since I reached the airport. I turn it on, and the screen lights up instantly with missed calls from Lucian.
Over and over. Dozens of them.
My thumb hovers for a moment, wondering if I should read his texts or maybe answer one of his calls.
I block his number.
I keep reminding myself that it’s over for tonight:
C’est fini pour ce soir.
C’est fini pour ce soir.
C’est fini pour ce soir.
Morning comes quickly. I wash my face and sit on the balcony. The smell of fresh bread drifts up from the bakery downstairs. I clutch my coffee cup—chipped at the rim—and stare at nothing.
“Tu es déjà réveillée?” my aunt murmurs from behind me. You’re already awake?
She sits beside me, the wicker chair groaning beneath her weight.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say softly.
“Je vois,” she says. I see. “Ma chérie, I don’t want to say je te l’avais dit—I told you so—but…”
“But you did warn me.”
“These rich men—they never come without shadows.”
I take a slow sip of coffee. “You were right.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “But something in you… has changed. Tell me, mon ange, do you love him?”
My lips press together, and I don’t answer.
She sighs. “You do.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“What did he do?”
I let out a shaky breath. “He… threatened me.”
“Quoi?”
“It’s not—” I swallow. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then explain it to me.”
I rub my thumb against the mug, feeling the faint ridge of the crack. “I don’t even know how to explain it. He controls everything. But when he… touches me…sorry. Too much information.”
“Go on.”
“It’s the way he touches me. The way he looks at me like I’m something he’s never seen before. I hate that I still…” I shake my head. “I don’t even understand myself anymore.”
“Ce n’est pas stupide, ma belle—it’s not stupid. It’s human.”
“Then why does it hurt this much?”
“Because you love someone who doesn’t know how to love you back—who only knows how to fixate,” she says.
“He ruined everything, tante. My career. My name. My peace.”
“Then let him ruin himself now. You rest. You rebuild.”
The bakery bell rings below, laughter spilling into the morning air, and she leaves me to tend to the customers.
When the wind shifts, I swear I can almost hear his voice—rough, desperate, calling my name.
I drag my laptop from the kitchen counter, set it on the small table by the window, sunlight slanting across the keys, and stare at it for a long moment.
Then I start typing:
Dear Director,
I am resigning from my position, effective immediately.
I delete it, rewrite:
I can no longer continue with the company. Recent events make it impossible to perform to the standard I hold myself to.
Delete again, type:
I am resigning, effective immediately. I apologize for the abruptness, but I must prioritize my well-being.
Can I really leave it all behind? Can I finally let him go? I wipe the corners of my eyes and type one last time:
Thank you for your support and for the opportunities I have been given.
Sincerely,
Aurora Laurent
I press Send and sit back in my chair.
I am free. Free of the contract. Free of the obsession. Free of the chaos.
But it doesn’t mean I’m happy.