Chapter Sixteen Aurora
Chapter Sixteen
Aurora
The locker room smelled faintly of perfume and sweat, mixed with the sharp tang of disinfectant. I tugged at the zipper of my worn bag, hands still trembling, heart hammering as I prepared myself to walk out into the night.
I hated this part, leaving. Always left me uneasy. Wondering if someone would follow me, if one of the men who grinned too wide and waved too much cash would take it further than just words. I kept my head down, clutching my bag close.
“Aurora.”
I froze. The manager was standing by the doorway, something heavy in his hand. A thick white envelope. My brows furrowed, and I hummed low in my throat, tilting my head in question.
He gave me a small, uneasy smile. “It’s yours. Your tip.”
My confusion deepened. I reached out slowly, and the weight of it nearly made my knees buckle. It was thick, so thick it felt wrong in my hand.
The manager cleared his throat. “The bill came out to $3,983. We just closed his tab a few minutes ago.”
I blinked, staring blankly at him. That number didn’t even register in my head. It couldn’t.
“He tipped you a hundred per cent,” the manager added. “In cash. Out of his own wallet.”
I shook my head, clutching the envelope tighter. No. That couldn’t be right. Tips were good here, yes. Sometimes outrageous. But not this. Never this.
“And,” the manager hesitated, “he also paid five grand to keep you upstairs tonight. As company. I thought you should know. He didn’t have to pay that much, but he did. I was shocked myself.”
My lips parted soundlessly. Five thousand. Almost four thousand in drinks. Almost four thousand in tips. Tens of thousands in one night. For me.
It was too much. Too heavy. My fingers dug into the envelope as if it might disappear if I loosened my grip. And then the manager added the name that made my stomach drop straight to the floor.
“It was Mr Lockhart. All him.”
Joshua.
Joshua Lockhart. The boy who had made my life hell since the moment I stepped onto campus last year. The one who told me I didn’t belong, who humiliated me like it was his form of fun, who never let me breathe. Him.
Why?
Why would he spend that kind of money? On me?
The envelope felt like it was burning through my skin, like every bill inside was laced with questions I couldn’t answer.
By the time I walked home, I was gripping it so tight my knuckles were white. He got me dinner today, yeah. It was oddly comforting, sweet, and didn’t humiliate me. But this? I didn’t understand it.
I don’t think I ever will understand him.
I shut the apartment door behind me and leaned against it, my knees weak. The quiet hit me first. No music pounding, no hands brushing against me, no voices calling me things I hated to hear. Just silence. And the envelope.
I opened it with trembling fingers, and the sight nearly made me choke. Cash. Stacks of bills. More money than I’d ever held in my entire life. I stared at it. Stared until my eyes blurred. My mind wouldn’t stop racing.
If he gave me this, then he must expect something. He must want me to… no. No. My stomach twisted violently, and I shook my head hard, pressing the envelope shut with both hands like it could erase the thought.
No. I can’t. I won’t.
He might think this means something. That I owe him. That I have to give him something back. I won’t. I’ll give it back. I can’t keep it. I can’t let him think…
But my thoughts stuttered. Halted.
Because—
Someone like him wouldn’t—
I froze. The words caught in my throat.
Someone like him wouldn’t what?
Wouldn’t pay thousands to keep me safe?
Wouldn’t cover me with his jacket, tell me to button my shirt, push water toward me when my hands were shaking too hard to hold the bottle?
Wouldn’t sit there for hours just so I wouldn’t have to walk back into that crowd?
Wouldn’t let me take his phone—his phone—and play silly little games like a child, like it was the most normal thing in the world?
I lay back on the bed, clutching the envelope tightly to my chest.
It felt wrong. His jacket. His water. His phone. His money. It all felt… wrong. Because if I let myself believe he did it for me, really for me, then what? What would that mean?
My throat tightened. No. He pities me. That’s all.
Yeah. That has to be it.
He saw a girl struggling, some quiet scholarship kid who has to wear short skirts and tight shirts just to survive, and he decided to feel bad for me. That’s all it was.
A charity case.
He didn’t see me. Not really. Not any differently than anyone else. I’m just another waitress. Another mute angel. Another silent doll.
The only difference is that he didn’t touch me like the rest of them. He just… threw money at me. Respectfully. Like I was still a service, but at least he didn’t make me suffer for it.
That’s it.
That has to be it.
Because to him, what’s a few thousand? Change. Pocket lint. A flick of the wrist. I pressed the envelope tighter, almost angrily.
I can’t let myself think it meant more. I can’t. Because the second I do, I’ll start believing he actually cares. And Joshua Lockhart doesn’t care. Not about me.
He pities me. End of story.
Then—
My phone buzzed.
I froze, heart lurching into my throat. The screen lit up with his name. Joshua.
Joshua: Did you get home fine?
My palms went slick. Why would he ask me that? Why would he—
No. Don’t spiral. Just… breathe.
I stared at the text for too long. My thumb hovered, trembling.
I couldn’t bring myself to answer the question. Instead, I typed something else.
Me: Are you busy?
The reply came back almost immediately.
Joshua: No.
My stomach flipped. He wasn’t busy. He was upstairs. Just upstairs.
Before I could stop myself, before my brain caught up with what my body was doing, I typed back:
Me: Can I come up?
There was a pause. Five seconds. Ten. My heart was beating so hard it hurt.
Then—
Joshua: Sure.
I sat there on my bed, the envelope heavy in my lap, staring at the word.
I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t sleep with this gnawing at me, with the thought of that much money in my possession. From him. No. I had to give it back. Right now.
I held the envelope and forced myself out the door. My legs felt like lead carrying me down the hall, every step too loud in the quiet corridor. My hands shook so badly that I almost dropped the envelope inside the elevator.
And when the doors closed around me, my reflection stared back, pale, wide-eyed, clutching a bag like I was smuggling a crime scene.
The elevator ride up was suffocating. By the time I reached his door, my palms were wet, my knees shaking. I hadn’t even changed. The skirt, the heels, the blouse that felt two sizes too small, all of it was still on me. Still marking me.
I knocked. Lightly at first. Then harder when there was no answer.
The door opened.
And there he was. Joshua. Towering, expression unreadable, eyes flicking from my face to the envelope I was clutching like a lifeline.
My throat locked up. I shoved it forward, both hands, desperate. Take it. Please, just take it.
For a second, he just stared. Then his jaw clenched, and he shut the door with a loud slam that caught me completely off guard.
Huh?
I blinked. Heat surged through me: embarrassment, humiliation, the sharp sting of rejection. Of course. What was I thinking? Barging in here like this, in this outfit, clutching cash like some desperate—
I turned, pressing my back to the door.
He didn’t want it. He didn’t want me here. And still, I couldn’t make myself move, especially with this stupid… this stupid envelope still in my hands.
The envelope felt heavier with every second I stood there. My hands ached from holding it out. My heart ached more. The door stayed shut. But my chest was caving in, panic clawing up my throat.
If I walked away now—if I left this money in my apartment—what if it became a chain around my ankle? What if it meant the same thing as it did when those men at the club slipped bills beneath their glasses, expecting more?
My fist rose before I could stop it. I knocked again. Harder. Desperate. The pause stretched longer this time, and when the door clicked, I braced myself.
Joshua stood there again. Shirt clinging to his chest, jaw locked so tight I could hear the grind of his teeth. He wasn’t cold; he was angry. His eyes burned holes straight through the envelope, then lifted to me.
I held it out again, shaking. Please. Take it. Take it so I can breathe.
He didn’t. Instead, with a sharp movement, he reached inside the door and grabbed something off the hook. A jacket.
Before I could flinch away, he swung it around me, drowning my body in fabric that smelled like him. It hung off my shoulders, swallowing me whole, but it covered me. Every inch.
“Go home,” he bit out, voice low, furious. “Go to sleep. It’s late. Just… go home.”
The door shut again. Slam. And then, click. Locked.
I stood there, frozen. Wrapped in him. My fingers dug into the envelope, my throat too tight to swallow. The fabric was warm against my skin, soft, heavy, smelling faintly of clean laundry and something darker, sharper, him.
He didn’t want the money back…
By the time I forced my feet to leave his floor, back down to my apartment, my head felt like it was splitting. The jacket weighed more than the envelope in my hand.
I dropped the cash on the counter without looking at it, almost flinching away. It didn’t matter. I was going to give it back one way or another. I had to. I didn’t want to owe him anything.
The jacket, though…
I should’ve hung it on the back of a chair. Left it by the door so I wouldn’t forget. Tossed it straight out if I had any sense.
But when I came out of the shower, hair damp and face bare, it was there on my bed. Sprawled across the blanket as if it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.
I froze.
It wasn’t Miles’s jacket. It wasn’t soft familiarity or the memory of someone who cared out loud. It was heavy, dark, suffocating in ways I didn’t understand. And yet, my hands reached for it anyway.
Before I knew it, I’d slipped under the covers with it pulled to my chest. The sleeves tangled in my arms, and the collar pressed to my face. It smelled like him.
I didn’t mean to hold on. I didn’t mean to let my eyes close. But the weight of it anchored me…
I fell asleep with Joshua Lockhart’s jacket in my arms.