Chapter 9 Aurora （Joy）
AURORA (JOY)
Dawn blurs the window, pale blue and unforgiving. I wake before him, skin still humming, sheets tangled at my waist. Wesley’s arm is heavy across my ribs, his breath slow and even. For a minute, I let myself watch him—the calm after the storm, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep.
The truth sits on my tongue, small and sour. Daughter of Robert and Serena Preston. Niece of Julian Rothschild. Generational money. A résumé that would change the shape of his smile.
If I say it out loud, he stops seeing me as the girl he danced with and starts seeing a Preston.
A Rothschild. The kind of legacy that makes people adjust how they stand.
Serena-in-training. I can’t stand the thought of that flicker in his eyes, of him pulling back because suddenly I’m not Joy, I’m an institution.
I could tell him now. The words hover—Joy isn’t the whole story—and my pulse trips thinking them. He flexes against my stomach; I freeze. The quiet feels too whole to break.
Outside, something cracks—the roof settling maybe. I swallow the confession and kiss his shoulder instead, a coward’s way out.
He stirs, half-murmuring my name, and it hits me how that single syllable—Joy—leaves so much unsaid.
“Morning, Foxy,” Wesley rumbles, his voice rough from sleep.
I roll onto his bare chest—warm skin, cedar, woodsmoke. The bed is criminally small. Every part of him has an excuse to touch me. He uses all of them.
Last night, he refused to let me untangle. Apparently Wesley Kane was absent when they explained the refractory period in biology. His version involves catching his breath and pulling me closer for another round.
My thighs are on fire, and I’m starving.
“Morning, pretty boy,” I murmur, aiming for breezy. “Santa bring you gifts last night?”
“Santa brought me a problem.” His mouth skims my temple. “You.”
“That’s rude.” I smile into his throat to hide the jump in my pulse. “People tell me I’m delightful.”
“Exactly.” He slides over my bare skin, palm flat at my waist. The pressure is possessive without being pushy.
Heat slides low in my belly. I shoot for light anyway. “We were convincing last night, don’t you think? Your ex must have gotten the message by now.”
He huffs a laugh, then tips my chin so I’m forced to look at him. “Joy. Don’t.”
Danger. Names sound different when they’re careful.
“We’re good,” I say, too fast. “Rule one, remember? Lots of PDA. No mess.”
“Rule two was no sex, if I remember right.” His thumb strokes my jaw slowly. “Too late now. Also, I read the fine print. Nothing about not kissing my fiancée good morning.”
“Fake fiancée.”
“Mm,” he hums, and his lips brush mine.
He doesn’t rush. He sets the pace like he’s got all day and a map. I should keep it playful—one of us has to—but my body goes traitor fast, arching into him, fisting the sheets because if I grab him, we will not make it downstairs before New Year’s.
He breaks just enough to breathe. “I’m not letting you float, Foxy.”
“Rude again.” I aim for sparkly. “I’m excellent at floating.”
“Yeah.” He kisses my cheek, the corner of my lips, the soft spot beneath my ear. “And I’m excellent at holding you up.”
My laugh trips, helpless. There it is—the line that makes my chest go tight and stupid. Don’t fall, Joy. There’s a cliff here, and you didn’t pack a parachute.
I slide a knee over his thigh to buy myself a joke. “Are you flirting with me on Jesus’s birthday?”
“I’m staking a claim,” he breathes, and his palm slides lower, fingers finding bare skin. “Last night felt right, doll. I want more.”
Air thins. Heat pools. My smile does its job—bright, unbothered—while my heart sprints toward the cliff edge.
“Greedy,” I manage.
“For you?” His tongue finds my throat. “Can you blame me?.”
The kiss that follows erases every smart thing I’ve ever thought. He maps my body, memorizing coordinates. My nails drag down his back.
“Are you sore?” he rumbles, biting my neck.
“I am. But also wet. And I want you.”
He grins, rolling on top of me. “I’ll go easy,” he says hoarsely, reaching for the side table to grab a condom. He teases my entrance before sliding home. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.
“I’m sorry you’re sore, baby,” he mumbles into my neck, his abs rolling over my front, his forearms coming to rest on either side of my face. “It was hard to hold back when I could tell you wanted it rough.”
“You loved it too,” I say, twirling my hips, savoring the fullness I feel. Every thrust is slow, deep, him bottoming out with a groan, sliding out again.
“Go on, baby, help yourself to what you need.”
My vision starts to blur, my teeth catching his bottom lip and biting down, my legs spreading wider on their own accord. The grateful, resounding rumble going through Wesley is a reward on its own.
“Bite down harder,” he rasps. “I need a few mean pumps, baby. Okay?”
I nod, pant, lift my hips to pull him in deeper, my peak overtaking, flesh smacking flesh, the sound obscene and so perfect.
“That’s my girl,” he rasps, pumping harder, “so good at taking my cock.”
He jerks and shudders on top of me, and we both collapse like spent toys, Wesley landing on the pillows next to me.
We lie tangled together for some time, panting. He traces lazy patterns on my hip.
“Hey, you, Joy Preston?” His fingers delve into my hair and tilt my face.
“Yeah?”
“Just where the hell have you been all my life?”
My heart skips a beat. For a moment, it’s as if I peeked into my future. I could see us together in years to come.
“Shower?” he murmurs eventually.
“We should.” I don’t move.
He laughs, warm against my hair. “Come on. My mom’s probably got breakfast waiting. And if we’re late, my brothers will eat all the bacon.”
“Bacon?” I lift my head. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
His grin is pure mischief. “Knew that’d get you moving.”
The living room is chaos in the best way.
Wesley’s youngest brother is vibrating with excitement, practically levitating near the tree.
The older one pretends to be too cool for this but keeps sneaking glances at the wrapped boxes.
Their mom sits on the couch with coffee, eyes soft and happy.
Their dad’s in the armchair, looking impossibly pleased with himself.
“Finally!” Erik shouts when we appear. “Can we start now?”
“Patience, buddy,” Wesley says, dropping onto the couch and pulling me down next to him. His arm drapes across my shoulders, casual and possessive.
His mom beams at us. “Merry Christmas, you two.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. She’s welcoming me into her family, and I’m lying to all of them.
“Merry Christmas,” I echo, suddenly aware that I’m wearing Wesley’s hoodie and probably look thoroughly…well.
His dad’s mouth twitches, fighting a knowing smile. “Sleep okay?”
“Great,” Wesley says, completely shameless. “Best sleep I’ve had in months.”
My cheeks are on fire. Wesley grins, pulling me in.
“Presents!” Erik demands.
“Go ahead,” his mom laughs.
Paper flies. Hockey stick—cheering. Video game—screaming. Socks—polite thanks. Then he opens my subway-token keychain and lights up. “This is so cool. From New York?”
“Straight from the MTA.”
He clips it on immediately.
Lars unwraps his Yankees pin, grins, and pins it to his shirt.
“Your turn, Joy,” Wesley’s dad says, handing me a box. Inside is a hand-knitted scarf—soft blues and grays. “For Alaska winters,” his mom says.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
The kindness is a knife. What will she think when Wesley finds out who my uncle is? That this was all an act?
His dad adds a smaller box: smoked salmon, blueberry preserves. “Taste of home.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
Wesley squeezes my shoulder, kisses my temple.
“Your turn, son,” his dad prompts.
Wesley pulls my flat package from under the tree. Brown paper and twine. He opens it carefully, then goes still.
The shadowbox gleams: vintage puck, brass posts, copper plate.
59.0° N, 158.5° W — Home
40.7505° N, 73.9934° W — Home
His throat works. His dad reads, eyes brightening. “That’s real thoughtful, Joy.”
“You’re both,” I say softly. “Alaska and New York. You don’t have to choose.”
Wesley sets it on the mantel where the light hits the copper, then meets my eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths.
He reaches behind the tree for a velvet pouch and envelope. “Open the pouch first.”
Inside is a gold bracelet with three charms—a ballroom shoe, a tiny camera, and a blank disk.
“For the girl who counts slow, slow, quick-quick,” he says. “Who sees everything. The blank’s for what comes next.”
My throat tightens. “Wesley—”
“The envelope,” Erik urges.
Two tickets spill out: Alvin Ailey in January. Orchestra seats.
“How did you—”
“I pay attention.” That smile. “They come with a date, Foxy. Me.”
I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him—quick, grateful, real.
When I pull back, his mom’s dabbing at her tears, his dad hides a grin, the boys groan theatrically.
Wesley fastens the bracelet around my wrist, thumb lingering on my pulse.
I’m helping Wesley pack when it hits me that this is the last night in Alaska. Tomorrow we fly back. Tomorrow it all stops being snow and cocoa and pretending. Tomorrow is parents and trustees and the ghost of my grandmother micromanaging from beyond the grave.
I freeze with a sweater half folded. He knows I have a family, an inheritance. He doesn’t know that “inheritance” comes with marble staircases and a family tree probably cataloged at the Library of Congress.
But why would he? Who blurts out their net worth over breakfast?
Hi, I’m Joy. I come from old money and unresolved emotional trauma. Pass the syrup.
Maybe I don’t have to tell him. It’s Christmas. Everyone’s happy. Who ruins Christmas with financial disclosures?
Besides, I didn’t lie. I just…didn’t pull up a PowerPoint titled My Ancestral Burden.
He wouldn’t care. Probably.
He’s grounded. Mature. He—
God. He’s going to care.
Maybe later. When there’s alcohol. Or daylight. Or courage.
I sit back on the bed, watching him fold shirts—calm, methodical, unfairly hot. What is he exactly? Boyfriend? Fake fiancé? Emotional support lumberjack?
All of the above? None?
Maybe it’s fine. Maybe it’s better this way. One quiet night before everything implodes.
Let tomorrow deal with tomorrow.
“You’ve been somewhere else all day,” Wesley says, glancing up.
I blink and force a smile. “What?”
“You keep drifting.” He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me between his knees. “Where are you?”
“Just thinking about the next few days.” I touch his jaw. “Meeting my family.”
His hands settle on my hips, grip gentle but uncertain. “Did I—last night, was it too much?”
“No.” I cup his face. “Last night was perfect.”
Relief flashes across his expression. “Good. Because I—” He stops himself.
“Because you what?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about the next few days too. But I’m sure they’ll love me. Everyone loves me.” He grins.
“Confident much?” I try to joke, then falter. “Wesley?”
“What?”
“There’s something I should tell you,” I start, voice shaking. “About my family—”
He goes still, reading my tone. “What about them?”
My throat closes. The words are right there: My uncle owns the Defenders. I’m not who you think I am.
“They’re…they can be—” His expression shifts, concern, curiosity, then patience. All of it making this worse.
If I say it, everything changes. He’ll put distance between us, the way people always do around Preston money. He’ll think I was auditioning him, that this—us—was strategy. I can survive my mother being disappointed in me; I cannot survive him looking at me like I’m another version of her.
Say it. Just say it.
My throat closes.
Coward.
“JOY! WES!” Lars yells from downstairs. “COME OUTSIDE! AURORA!”
Wesley’s face lights up. “Seriously?”
“Wesley, wait—”
But he’s already pulling me toward the door, grinning. “You have to see this. Come on.”
The moment shatters.
Outside, the sky is on fire—green and violet curtains rippling across the dark, dancing in sheets of impossible color. The whole family stands in the snow, faces tipped up, breath fogging in the cold.
Wesley wraps his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder.
“Beautiful,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, but he’s looking at me, not the sky.
I lean back into him, memorizing this—the warmth, the wonder, the way his family gathers close, laughing and pointing. The way he holds me like I belong here.
Like I belong to him.
Tomorrow we fly home. And after, he meets my family. Uncle Julian will shake his hand, and Wesley’s face will change, and this—all of this—will end.
The second he realizes what my last name really means, I’ll stop being the girl in his hoodie and start being an asset. A problem set. An angle.
I close my eyes against the northern lights and hold on tighter.
The truth will catch up.
It always does.