19. Aurora
19
AURORA
TWO WEEKS LATER
I take a deep breath as our car pulls up to the studio. Ruslan's hand finds mine, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Are you ready to do this?" he asks softly.
I shake my head, resting my hand protectively over my belly. "I don't think I'll ever really be ready. But I know I need to do this."
"I'll be right here next to you, zarechka ," Ruslan says, and then opens the door.
The studio entrance looks innocuous enough—just another nondescript building in LA. But my heart hammers in my chest, knowing what waits for me inside.
As we walk through the parking lot, memories of the last time I was on a set come flooding back: Mikhail's body crumpling as the bullet tore through him, the chaos that followed, and my own desperate escape.
Ruslan's arm wraps around my waist as we approach the entrance. Hannah meets us at the door, clipboard in hand, but her cheerful greeting fades when she sees my face.
"The set is ready," she says cautiously. "We can get you into makeup whenever you're comfortable."
Ruslan helps me through the door, his steady presence my only anchor as we walk down the hallway toward the sound stage. But the moment I step inside, my knees nearly buckle beneath me.
It's my childhood home.
Every detail is perfect. The worn paint at the edges of the door frame. The slightly crooked gutters running down the side of the house.
Even the slightly ajar front door is exactly the way I found it that night.
A wave of nausea roils my stomach as I stare at that door.
In my mind, I can already see what's waiting on the other side.
The sickening message written in blood.
I swear I can smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, though I know it's impossible. My chest tightens, each breath becoming more difficult than the last.
The sounds around me fade as memories crash over me in waves. I'm nineteen again, frozen in terror, staring at my family's broken bodies.
I feel someone approach, but they sound like they're underwater. Everything's muffled except for the pounding of my heart.
"Mrs. Dragunov? Is everything accurate? We tried to match the photos exactly..."
The set designer's voice barely registers. My eyes are locked on that door.
The door I last pushed open seven years ago.
Ruslan's arm is the only solid thing that’s keeping me from floating away into the past. He anchors me to the present. But something pulls me forward.
A gravity I can't resist.
I slide out from Ruslan's protective hold. My feet move of their own accord, one step at a time toward that slightly open door.
"Aurora..." I hear Ruslan's concerned voice behind me, but I can't stop.
The hardwood floor creaks beneath my feet, just like it did that night. My hand reaches for the doorknob, cold metal against my trembling fingers.
I push the door open.
The living room swims before my eyes, past and present blurring together. For a moment, I see them—my family—on the floor. Dad's outstretched hand. Mom's broken body. My little brother's baseball cap soaked in red.
They're not there on the set. But the words are.
Those awful crimson letters sprawled across the pristine white wall:
Look what you made me do.
My legs turn to water beneath me. The room tilts and spins.
A raw, ragged cry tears from my throat as those crimson words burn into my vision. The floor rushes up to meet me, but Ruslan's arms catch me before I hit the ground. My legs fail completely as sobs wrack my body.
Seven years of running. Seven years of nightmares. Seven years of whispering to myself that Jamie Fields is dead. And now here I am, staring at the words that haunted me across state lines and different identities.
"It's not real," Ruslan whispers, but his voice sounds distant. "Aurora, look at me."
I can't tear my eyes from those letters. They're just paint on a wall. I know this logically.
But my body doesn't believe it.
Every nerve ending fires in panic as my breath comes in short, painful gasps.
"He killed them," I choke out. "He killed them because of me."
The tears won't stop. They blur my vision until the crimson words swim before me. I feel like I'm drowning, the weight of everything I've been carrying suddenly crashing down on me at once.
"Aurora," Ruslan says, his lips pressed against my temple as he tries to pull me back to the present. "You're okay, Aurora."
But part of me is trapped in the past, staring at my family's butchered bodies in Kansas City.
I blink hard, the world slowly coming back into focus. The set. The cameras. The crew frozen in place, watching me with expressions ranging from pity to discomfort.
My face feels hot and wet. I touch my cheek and my fingers come away damp with tears.
"Everyone out," Ruslan orders, his voice carrying that unmistakable command that brooks no argument. The set clears within seconds, leaving just Ruslan and me kneeling on the floor.
"You don't have to do this," he murmurs against my hair. "Not if you don't want to."
But I shake my head, forcing my eyes to look at those painted words that have chased me through seven years of nightmares.
"No," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "I have to do this."
I force myself to look directly at those painted letters. They're just prop paint on a wall. Not real blood. Not my family's blood.
"I've been running from him for seven years. I've been running from this for seven years." My hand points at the wall. "I'm done letting him control my life."
Ruslan cups my face in his hands, his golden eyes searching mine. "Are you sure?"
I nod, something hardening inside me. Something that feels like rage, determination, and the first fragile shoots of hope all tangled together.
"He doesn't have the right to keep me afraid anymore," I say, each word feeling like a small victory. "He's taken enough from me already. My family. My name. Seven years of my life."
I grab Ruslan's arm and pull myself to my feet, staring at those crimson letters one more time.
"But I'll be goddamned if I let him take my future. Or our children's future." I turn back to Ruslan, my voice finding its strength. "Call everyone back in. I'm ready."
Ruslan stares at me for a moment, and then kisses me gently. His lips are warm against mine, and I taste the saltiness of tears I didn't realize were still streaming down my face.
"We'll get through this together," he whispers, then helps me to my feet and guides me to a nearby chair.
My legs feel like water, but his steady hand on my back keeps me grounded as I sink into the seat. I watch him stride toward the door, his entire body radiating that quiet authority as he calls the cast and crew back in.
Everyone files back in slowly, casting nervous glances my way. Hannah gives me a supportive smile as she helps adjust a light, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of strength. I can do this. I need to do this.
The production assistant leads me to the makeup chair, her hand gentle on my elbow as if I might shatter at any moment. Maybe I will. After my breakdown on set, everyone's treating me like I'm made of glass.
"We'll take good care of you," she promises, helping me into the chair.
I sink into the cushioned seat, grateful to be off my shaky legs. In the mirror, my reflection looks haunted—eyes red-rimmed, face pale. The makeup artist approaches, a kind-faced woman with delicate hands.
"Close your eyes, Mrs. Dragunov," she instructs softly. "This might take a while."
I obey, letting darkness envelop me as I feel the first cool touch of a makeup sponge against my skin. The steady rhythm of the application is almost hypnotic. Foundation, powder, more foundation. The brush strokes across my face like gentle fingertips.
"We're going to age you about twenty years," the makeup artist explains. "I've seen the pictures you provided of your mother. She was beautiful."
A lump forms in my throat. "She was."
Time seems to stretch and compress as they work. I feel them contouring my cheekbones, higher and more pronounced, just like Mom's. The brush tickles as they add fine lines around my eyes and mouth.
"I'm adding the beauty mark now," the artist says after what feels like hours.
I nod, eyes still closed, as I feel the tiny dot being placed on my right cheek. Mom's signature mark, the one that my little brother and I used to tease her about when we were little.
The hair stylist works simultaneously, pinning and spraying, transforming my dirty blonde locks into Mom's signature style.
Someone else works on my hands, making them look older with subtle veining and spots.
"Almost done," the makeup artist eventually says. "Just a few final touches."
I feel a light dusting of powder, a gentle dab of something on my lips. Memories swirl behind my closed eyelids. Mom at the kitchen counter, cooking Sunday breakfast. Mom scolding me for sneaking out to meet Kristofer when she told me not to. Mom hugging me when I cried after a bad audition.
"You can open your eyes now," the makeup artist finally says, stepping back.
I hesitate, suddenly terrified of what I'll see.
When I finally open my eyes, the world stops.
"Mom," tumbles from my lips before I can stop myself.
It's her face. The one I've seen a thousand times in my dreams. The gentle laugh lines around her eyes. The way her lips naturally curved up at the corners. Even the tiny scar on her forehead from when she fell off her bike as a teenager.
Silent tears track down my face, disturbing the careful makeup. But I can't stop staring at the ghost in the mirror.
For a wild, desperate moment, I find myself wishing the reflection would reach out and close the impossible distance between us. That somehow she could step through the glass and wrap me in one of her all-encompassing hugs.
The kind that made everything better, even when my world was falling apart.
Just one more hug. One more opportunity to hear her laugh. One more chance to tell her I love her.
But that's never going to happen again.
"I miss her so much," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Especially now, with the babies coming." I touch my stomach instinctively. "She would have been so excited to be a grandmother."
The makeup artist squeezes my shoulder gently. "I can tell she raised a strong woman. Not everyone could do what you're doing."
"Sometimes I'm afraid I'll forget what she looked like," I admit, still staring at the mirror.
I touch the mirror, my fingertips pressing against the cool glass.
"But seeing myself like this, it brings it all back. It's like she's here, for just a moment."
The makeup artist hands me a tissue, and I dab carefully at my eyes, trying not to smudge her incredible work.
"Thank you. Not just for the makeup, but for... bringing her back to me, even if it's just for today."
I turn toward the set where the fake Kansas City home waits for me. Earlier, the sight of it brought me to my knees. But now as I walk toward it, something shifts inside me.
The fear is still there—I doubt it will ever fully disappear—but alongside it burns something new. Something stronger.
Determination.
Each step feels purposeful as I approach the set. Those painted blood-red letters no longer paralyze me with terror. They fuel me.
Look what you made me do.
No, you bastard. Look what I'm about to do.
I'm taking back the narrative. I'm facing my nightmare.
And I'll turn it into a weapon against the monster who created it in the first place.