Chapter 6
AURORA
Home.
The word feels wrong in my mouth as I stare up at the iron gates of my father's estate. Behind them, the main house sprawls across manicured lawns—white stone, columns, the kind of ostentatious wealth that screams power.
I used to love this place. Used to run through these gardens as a kid, back when Mom was alive, and the world made sense.
Now it just feels like a cage.
The gates swing open. The driver—one of Dad's men, silent and stoic—pulls the car up the long driveway. My suitcases are already being unloaded before we even stop.
"Miss Aurora." Marco, my father's head of security, opens my door. "Welcome home."
Home.
There's that word again.
"Thanks, Marco." I climb out and smooth down my dress. The same black dress I wore to Axel's penthouse yesterday. I haven't changed. Haven't showered. Can still smell him on my skin if I try hard enough.
Stop thinking about him.
But I can't. Can't stop replaying those last five hours.
The way he held me. The way he kissed me goodbye at the door, his hand cupping my face like I was something precious.
The way he watched me leave, expression carved from stone, and didn't ask me to stay, even though I could see it in his eyes.
We're from different worlds.
I told myself that in the car. Told myself that a thousand times on the flight home. Told myself that what we had was temporary, beautiful, over.
My chest still hurts.
"Aurora!" Dad's voice booms from the front entrance. He's standing there in his usual uniform—expensive suit, no tie, commanding presence that makes men twice his size nervous. "About time. I was starting to think you forgot where you live."
I paste on a smile. Walk up the steps. Let him pull me into a brief hug that's more obligation than affection.
"Missed you too, Dad."
"You look tired." He studies my face, and I see the moment he notices something's off. "School run you ragged?"
"Something like that."
"Well, you're home now. Get some rest." He kisses me on the cheek. "Good to have you back, princess."
Princess.
He's called me that since I was a baby. Back when I was younger, it made me feel special. Now it just reminds me that I'm a princess in a world that leaves me no room to be who I want to be.
I suppose I should be thankful for the years my father allowed me to experience freedom. Most women in my world never get this kind of chance.
I head inside. Up the grand staircase. Down the hallway to my room—the one I haven't slept in for four years, the one that still has posters from high school and books I'll never read again.
Everything's exactly how I left it.
I'm the only thing that's changed.
The first week back, I slip into my old routine like putting on a familiar coat that doesn't quite fit anymore.
In the mornings, I work in Dad's office. He's got me analyzing financial statements from his "legitimate businesses"—restaurants, nightclubs, construction companies. All of them fronts for moving money, and all of them need clean books in case the feds come sniffing.
I'm good at this. Always have been. Numbers make sense in ways people don't. You can trace money, follow patterns, and see where things don't add up. It's satisfying to fix the discrepancies, making everything balance.
"This nightclub's running a deficit," I tell Dad on Thursday.
"You're paying out more in 'consulting fees' than you're bringing in.
But it's not random skimming — it's consistent, same amount, same day of the month, routed through three different vendor accounts.
Someone set this up deliberately. It's been running for at least eight months.
" I turn the laptop toward him. "See the pattern? "
He leans over my shoulder and goes very still.
"That's Dmitri's territory," he says quietly.
"I know. His name isn't on any of it, but the routing pattern goes through a holding company that traces back to a property in his wife's name. I can write up the full trail if you want it documented."
Dad straightens. Studies me for a moment with an expression I can't quite read. "When did you find this?"
"Day two. I wanted to make sure before I brought it to you."
"How long to find something like this, normally?"
"For someone who doesn't know what they're looking at? Maybe never. The structure's reasonably clean." I shrug. "I've just been doing this long enough to know what clean is supposed to look like."
He's quiet for another moment. Then: "I'll handle Dmitri." He squeezes my shoulder. "Good work, princess. Genuinely."
The praise lands somewhere complicated. Because I am good at this. That part's true and has always been true — numbers don't lie, patterns don't hide from me, I can pull thread from a balance sheet the way some people pull thread from fabric. It's mine, this skill. I built it.
I just wish I got to use it for something that didn't end with a man like Dmitri quietly disappearing.
What would Axel think if he found out who I really am?
I shove the thought away. Axel's gone. Axel was never real. Just a moment out of time.
In the afternoons, I am expected to be the dutiful daughter. Lunch with Dad's associates' wives. Because dad is parading me for the highest bidder. Tea with the women who run the charity foundations that launder money. Smiling, nodding, playing the part of the perfect mafia princess.
They all ask the same questions. "Are you seeing anyone?"
"Your father must be so proud."
"I'm sure he'll find you a wonderful match."
A match.
Like I'm a prize mare being bred for pedigree.
I smile and deflect and count down the hours until I can escape to my room.
At night, I lie in bed and try not to think about Axel.
I fail every time.
Three weeks home, and I start feeling off.
It's subtle at first. Tiredness that sleep doesn't fix. A weird sensitivity to smells—the coffee Dad drinks every morning suddenly makes my stomach turn. Food tastes wrong.
I tell myself it's stress. Adjustment. My body protesting being back in this world after four years of freedom.
Then I miss my period.
I stare at my calendar, count backwards, count again.
No.
No, this isn't—
We used condoms. Axel used condoms.
But nothing's a hundred percent.
Fuck.
I buy a pregnancy test at a pharmacy three towns away, somewhere no one recognizes me. Pay cash for it and shove it in my purse like it's contraband.
I wait until Dad's in a meeting so he won't need me for hours. Lock myself in the bathroom. Pee on the stick with shaking hands.
Three minutes.
The longest three minutes of my life.
I don't look. Can't look. Just sit on the edge of the bathtub and try to breathe.
Please be negative. Please please please—
My phone timer goes off.
I look.
Two pink lines.
Positive.
The world tilts. I grip the sink, stare at my reflection—pale skin, wide eyes, the face of a woman whose life just imploded.
Pregnant.
I'm pregnant with Axel Santego's baby.
A man I spent just a few days with. A man I'll never see again.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
I could get rid of it. There are doctors who handle these things discreetly and won't ask questions if the price is right.
But even as I think it, I know I won't.
This baby—Axel's baby—is the only piece of him I have left. And the truth is, I can’t bring myself to end a part of myself. This child is half me and half Axel.
You're an idiot.
I know.
But I can't—
A knock on my door makes me jump.
"Aurora?" Dad's voice. "You in there?"
Shit.
I shove the test in my pocket, flush the toilet for cover. "Yeah, just a second!"
I wash my hands. Check my reflection. Force my expression to be neutral, step out of the bathroom, and walk to my bedroom door.
Dad's standing there in his suit, looking annoyed. "Dr. Volkov's here for your checkup."
"What checkup?"
"One I’m sure you need." He's already turning, expecting me to follow. "Come on. He's waiting in the study."
No no no—
"Dad, I don't need a checkup. I'm fine—"
"Humor me." He pauses and looks back. "You've been looking pale, fatigued, and you've lost your appetite. I want to make sure it's not what your mother felt when she was pregnant."
There's no arguing with him when he's like this. I follow him downstairs, my heart hammering so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it.
Dr. Volkov's been our family doctor for twenty years. Gray hair, kind eyes, absolute discretion. He's patched up bullet wounds, removed fingers, and disposed of bodies. A routine checkup should be nothing.
Except I'm pregnant.
And he's going to know.
"Aurora." He smiles when I enter. "Good to see you. Your father tells me you just finished your degree. Congratulations."
"Thanks." My voice sounds far away.
"Just a quick exam. Blood pressure, heart rate, general wellness check. Shouldn't take long."
I sit. Let him take my blood pressure—high, but he doesn't comment. Let him listen to my heart—racing, but again, no comment.
Then he pulls out a syringe.
"Just need to draw some blood. Routine panels, make sure everything's functioning properly."
No.
Blood tests will show everything. Hormone levels. HCG. Pregnancy.
"Is that really necessary?" I try to keep my voice casual. "I feel fine."
"Your father insists." Dr. Volkov's already tying the tourniquet around my arm. "Won't take a moment."
I look at Dad. He's standing by the door, arms crossed, watching.
There's no way out of this.
I let Dr. Volkov draw the blood. Watch him fill three vials with dark red liquid that's about to destroy my life.
"All done." He labels the vials and tucks them in his bag. "I'll have results in a few days. If anything's concerning, I'll call."
A few days.
I have a few days to figure out what to say. How to explain. What to do.
"Thank you, doctor." Dad shakes his hand. "Aurora, walk him out."
I do. My legs feel like water.
At the door, Dr. Volkov pauses. Looks at me with those kind eyes.
"Aurora," he says quietly. "If there's anything you need to tell me—anything at all—you know it's confidential."
He knows.