Chapter 8
AURORA
"You're going home."
I look up from my book. Marco's standing in the doorway of the guest house, expression unreadable.
"What?"
"Your father wants you back at the main estate. There's a... situation."
"Wh…what kind of situation?"
"The kind where you get dressed in something nice and don't ask questions." His voice softens slightly. "I'm sorry, Aurora. Orders."
No.
I've been at this countryside estate for five days. Five days of throwing up every morning, of lying awake at night touching my still-flat stomach, of trying not to think about Axel.
And failing.
Now Dad wants me back?
Why?
"When?" I ask.
"Car leaves in an hour. Pack light. We're coming back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Marco, what's going on?"
But he's already gone.
The drive back feels like riding to my own execution.
I'm wearing a black dress to fit how I feel inside, my hair pinned back, makeup covering the exhaustion I've been wearing for days. In the mirror, I look like myself. Put together. Composed.
Inside, I'm screaming.
What does he want? Why does he want me back for just a brief meeting?
The main estate looms into view as the sun sets, all lit up like there's a party happening. My stomach drops.
There is a party happening.
Cars line the driveway—expensive ones, the kind that belong to Dad's associates and their families. Through the windows, I can see people in formal wear, champagne glasses, the whole production.
"Marco." My voice comes out tight. "What is this?"
"Your father will explain." He won't meet my eyes.
The car stops, and one of the men opens my door. I step out into a nightmare.
Dad's waiting at the entrance, wearing a new suit, and the smile he uses for business. The one that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Aurora." He kisses my cheek. "You look beautiful."
"What's going on?"
"We'll talk inside." He takes my arm and starts leading me toward the door. "You're going to smile. You're going to be gracious. You're going to do exactly what I tell you. Understand?"
No. No no no—
"Dad—"
"Understand?" His grip tightens. “You have shamed me enough.”
"Yes, Papa." The word tastes like poison.
We walk inside. The foyer's packed with people I recognize—Dad's underbosses, their wives, business associates, all dressed like they're at a wedding.
Oh God.
"What is this?" I whisper.
"Your engagement party." Dad's voice is flat. "You're getting married, Aurora. To the son of my oldest friend. It's already arranged."
The world tilts.
Engaged.
Married.
No—
"I didn't agree to this—"
"You lost the right to choose when you came home pregnant." His voice is ice. "Now you smile, you meet your future husband, and you accept this with grace. Because you have no other options."
He's right. I know he's right. Single, pregnant, disgraced—no man in this world would want me except as part of an arrangement. This is damage control. This is Dad fixing the mess I made.
This is my life ending.
"Who?" My voice cracks. "Who am I marrying?"
"The son of my close friend. Good family. His father runs a different city, but he and I go back many years. You'll meet them both tonight."
We're moving through the crowd now. People are staring, whispering. I catch fragments—"She’s been away."
"Finishing school"
"Don Luca's daughter"
"Finally settling her down"
“Should have been married off at least half a decade ago.”
Dad leads me to the center of the room, where a small platform's been set up. Like a stage. Like I'm the main attraction at this circus.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Dad's voice carries over the crowd. "Thank you for coming tonight to celebrate a union between two great families."
No. Please, no—
"My daughter Aurora will be marrying Leo Santego, son of my dear friend Axel Santego."
My brain stops, then begins to scream.
Axel?
I scan the crowd, desperately searching for—
And then I see him.
Silver hair. Dark eyes. That same devastating face from the club, the gallery, my hotel room, his penthouse.
Axel.
He's standing near the back, wearing another expensive black suit, and he's staring at me like he's seeing a ghost.
Our eyes lock.
Everything else disappears. The crowd, the noise, my father's voice droning on about alliances and family—none of it exists. There's just him and me and the month of silence screaming between us.
He's here.
He's real.
He's—
My eyes drop to the man standing next to him.
Younger. Blond. Smug smile already forming, like he's been rehearsing it.
The bottom drops out of my world.
I know that face. My pulse spikes before my brain catches up. My chest locks. The champagne glass in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
No.
No no no no—
Leo.
Not Leo Montgomery, which was the name I knew him by for the three weeks I made the mistake of spending time with him in my second year at Kingston.
Leo Santego, apparently. The same entitled jaw.
The same practiced confidence. The same hands — I can see them from here, gesturing at something, and my body flinches before I've consciously decided to flinch.
Those hands.
I remember the party. The hallway. The way he had me pinned against the wall before I understood what was happening, his grip so certain, so convinced he had the right. I remember saying no and the way his expression shifted to irritation and anger. Like I was being unreasonable.
I remember the bruises on my wrists the next morning. The split lip I covered with makeup for a week. The police report that disappeared so fast I started to wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing.
His smile when they released him. That smile, directed at me across a precinct parking lot.
I'm going to be sick.
My father is still talking. His voice reaches me in pieces — union — families — Santego —, but I can't hold onto the words because the room has gone very bright, very loud, and my body is doing something independent of my brain, cataloguing exits, calculating distances, running the math of trapped.
I press my free hand flat against my stomach, just for a second. Just to remind myself what I'm carrying. What I have to protect.
Breathe.
And then — Axel is Leo's father.
The realization arrives like ice water, cutting through the panic and replacing it with something worse. I scan back to Axel's face, find him already watching me with an expression that confirms everything — recognition, horror, a guilt so fresh it's almost bleeding.
He knows.
The man I gave my virginity to. The man whose baby is growing inside me right now, the reason I've been sick every morning for weeks now, the reason I spent five days at a countryside estate trying to put myself back together.
Is my future father-in-law.
"Aurora." Dad's voice has an edge now. "Don't be rude."
My legs carry me forward. I don't tell them to. They just go, the way the body does when the mind has given up trying to find another option — one step, two steps, walking toward Leo, toward Axel, toward the wreckage this night is going to make of me.
I make my face blank. Still. I learned this from my father.
You survive the room first. You fall apart later, alone.
Leo smiles as I approach, his face doing exactly what it’s been trained to do. The smile that lands is warm. Genuinely warm-looking, the kind that makes people in a room relax. He's good at this. I forgot how good.
"Aurora." He takes my hand with both of his, not grabbing — holding. The picture of a man meeting his future wife and finding himself pleasantly surprised. Around us, people are watching, and he knows it. "I have to say, I wasn't expecting someone like you."
"Leo." I keep my voice level. "It's been a while."
"It has." His thumb moves once across my knuckles — just once, just enough that only I feel it and nobody else sees it. His eyes find mine. There it is, underneath the warmth: the recognition. The look that says I got you at last.
"You look incredible." He drawls.
I extract my hand gently. He lets me — publicly, graciously lets me, because this is a stage and he's very good at performance.
"You're too kind," I say, because those are the words that belong in this moment, in this room, with all these people watching us begin.
"Not kind. Honest." He tilts his head slightly, and his voice drops just enough that it's almost intimate. Almost. "I think we're going to get along very well, you and I. I hope you'll give me the chance to show you that."
There's nothing overtly wrong with any of it. That's exactly the problem.
He takes a champagne glass from a passing tray, offers it to me first, then takes one for himself.
Perfect manners. He turns to the room with the ease of someone who has always known how to command a space.
"To my father's excellent taste," he says, warmly, "and to the woman who apparently has to live with the result. "
Light laughter. The room likes him. Of course it does.
He loops his arm through mine — not around my waist, not yet, just arm in arm, perfectly correct — and leans slightly toward me. His voice is very quiet now. Only for me.
"You look tense," he murmurs pleasantly. "You should relax. After all, this is a party. Not your funeral."
His arm is light against mine. Cordial. And I stand there smiling at the room while every nerve in my body screams.
I keep smiling.
Because I have no choice.