17 #2
My hands are shaking on the steering wheel. The cut on my palm is still bleeding, staining the leather. I should bandage it. Should go back upstairs and let her get the first-aid kit like she offered.
I don't.
I just drive. Out of the parking garage, off campus, toward the city. The Laurent Global headquarters building is forty-five minutes away. The board meeting isn't for another three hours.
I don't care. Anywhere is better than that penthouse right now.
My phone buzzes.
Tristan: Heard you have a board meeting. Want company on the drive?
I nearly ignore it. But the thought of sitting alone in my car for forty-five minutes, replaying Aurora's empty eyes and pleasant voice, makes me pull over.
Me: Meet me by the parking garage. Five minutes.
He's there in three. Slides into the passenger seat with his usual careful grace.
We drive in silence for ten minutes before he speaks.
"You broke your toy."
I don't respond. Just grip the steering wheel tighter.
"I warned you," he continues. His voice is clinical. Observational. "Over two weeks ago. In the bar. I told you that threatening her brother would push her past her breaking point."
"She's fine," I say flatly.
"Is she?" Tristan pulls out his phone. "Because Iris Hale asked me yesterday if Aurora was okay. Said she hasn't spoken a full sentence to anyone in two weeks. Skips social events. Doesn't respond to texts. Acts like a ghost."
"She's adjusting."
"She's dissociating." He sets his phone down. "Psychologically removing herself from a situation she can't physically escape. It's a trauma response, Evander. You've traumatized her into compliance."
"That's not—" I stop. Because he's right. I know he's right. "I gave her everything. Safety. Security. Resources."
"You gave her a cage." Tristan's voice is gentle. Almost pitying. "And you were so focused on building it perfectly that you didn't notice the cage only works if the bird wants to sing."
"She'll adjust," I repeat. "She just needs time."
"Time to what? Accept her captivity? Stockholm syndrome doesn't work like that, Evander. It requires positive reinforcement. Moments of kindness that create emotional bonds. You're not giving her kindness. You're giving her a life measured by your permission."
"Control is kindness." My voice hardens. "She doesn't have to worry about money or safety or her brother. All she has to do is follow instructions."
"And she is. Perfectly. Flawlessly." Tristan tilts his head. "So why do you look like you're dying inside?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because putting it into words makes it real.
I won. I got everything I wanted. Aurora Lane living in my penthouse, following my orders, completely under my control.
And I've never been more miserable.
"We’re going back to campus," I say abruptly.
"What?"
"The board meeting can wait."
I execute a U-turn that makes the tires squeal. Head back toward Ardencrest at speeds that would get me arrested if I was anyone other than Evander Laurent.
Tristan doesn't question it. Just sits quietly, watching me with those sharp, unreadable eyes.
"What are you going to do?" he finally asks.
"I don't know." My hands are white-knuckled on the wheel. "But I can't leave her like this. Can't leave… that."
"The ghost you created."
"Yes."
We make it back to campus in seven minutes. I pull into the parking garage. Kill the engine.
"Come up with me," I say.
"Why?"
"Because I need—" I stop. Swallow. Try again. "I need a witness. Someone to tell me if what I'm seeing is real or if I'm losing my mind."
Tristan studies me for a long moment. Then he nods. "Okay."
We ride the elevator in silence. Walk down the hallway to my penthouse door.
I unlock it. Step inside.
The dining table has been cleared. The broken glass cleaned up. No evidence of my outburst except a small bandage on the floor where she must have knelt to pick up the shards.
Aurora is sitting at her desk. Working. Like nothing happened.
She looks up when we enter. Sees Tristan. Her expression doesn't change.
"Hello, Tristan," she says pleasantly. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"
"I'm fine, thank you." Tristan's voice is carefully neutral.
She nods. Returns to her work.
I watch her. Watch Tristan watch her. See the exact moment he understands what I've been trying to explain.
She's not Aurora. Not anymore.
She's something else. Something I created by forcing submission through threats and manipulation and absolute control.
"Aurora," I say.
She looks up. "Yes, Evander?"
"You're excused for the night. Go to your room."
"I have another hour of work scheduled—"
"I said you're excused."
"Of course." She saves her document. Closes her laptop. Stands. "Goodnight, Evander. Goodnight, Tristan. Let me know if you need anything."
She walks to her bedroom. Closes the door with a soft click.
The silence she leaves behind is deafening.
Tristan walks to the bar. Pours himself a scotch. Pours me a bourbon. Hands it to me.
"You broke your toy, Evander," he says quietly. Not judgment. Just observation.
I take the bourbon. Down it in one swallow.
"I know."
"Can it be fixed?"
"I don't know." I set the glass down. "I don't even know if she wants to be fixed. Or if she's perfectly content existing like this."
"She's not content." Tristan swirls his scotch. "She's surviving. The same way she survived her father's abuse. By removing herself mentally from situations she can't escape physically."
"So what do I do?"
"You let her go." He says it simply. "Release the debt. Cancel the contract. Let her walk away."
"I can't." The admission comes out raw. "I can't let her go, Tristan. I've tried. I physically can't make myself do it."
"Then you accept that this—" He gestures toward her closed bedroom door. "—is what you've chosen. A compliant ghost instead of a living, breathing woman."
I don't respond. Can't respond. Because accepting that means accepting that I destroyed the only thing I've ever wanted.
Tristan finishes his scotch. Sets the glass down. Walks toward the door.
He stops. Turns back. Looks at me with something that might be pity.
"You wanted to own her, Evander. You do. Completely." He pauses. "But you can't own someone's soul. You can only destroy it. And that's exactly what you've done."
He leaves. The door closes with a soft click that echoes in the quiet penthouse.
I stand there. Alone. Surrounded by expensive furniture and luxury and absolute power.
And I've never felt more empty.
From behind her closed door, I hear nothing. No crying. No pacing. No signs of distress.
Just silence.
The same silence that fills every room she's in now. The same absence of life that makes this penthouse feel like a mausoleum instead of a home.
I walk to her door. Press my palm against the wood.
"Aurora," I say quietly. "Are you awake?"
"Yes, Evander." Her voice comes through clearly. No sleep-roughness. She hasn't even tried to rest. "Do you need something?"
I need her back. Need the fighter. Need the girl who looked at me with fury instead of this empty politeness.
But I don't know how to ask for that. Don't know how to undo what I've done.
"No," I finally say. "Go to sleep."
"Goodnight, Evander."
I stand there for another moment. Hand pressed against her door. Separated by inches of wood and miles of damage I've inflicted.
And then I walk away.
Back to my office. To my desk. To the chair I've been sitting in while watching her work in silence.
I open my laptop. Pull up the contract. The terms I forced her to accept.
Every clause designed to establish control. To eliminate resistance. To make her mine.
I did this. I built this cage so perfectly that she can't even see the bars anymore. Just accepts them as reality and adapts accordingly.
My phone buzzes.
Tristan: The meeting was rescheduled to tomorrow. 9 AM. I'll text Marcus to pick you up at 8.
I don't respond. Just stare at the contract on my screen.
At the proof of everything I've done.
At the evidence of how thoroughly I've destroyed the only person I've ever wanted.
And I have no idea how to fix it.
Or if it can be fixed at all.