Chapter Twelve
Aurora
The route back to my apartment has never felt longer.
No one’s looking at me — I know that — but it feels like they are. Like every stranger can see right through my clothes, into the rot of the rumors spreading online.
By the time I reach my building, my hands are trembling so badly I drop my keys twice. I slam the door behind me and lean against it.
Then I start packing.
I grab whatever my hands touch and throw it into the open suitcase.
Maybe I should’ve stayed in France, making coffee for tourists and wiping tables at Aunt Céline’s café, instead of chasing some impossible dream.
The zipper won’t close. I yank at it before finally giving up, just sitting on the floor.
With my reputation now, no one will ever hire me again. Not in Paris. Not in London. Not anywhere.
My phone starts vibrating.
The name on the screen makes my stomach drop. Tante Céline.
I feel like I’m going to vomit, and I have to swallow down the bile climbing up my throat.
“All??” My voice cracks when I answer.
“Aurora? Ma chérie, qu’est-ce qui se passe?” — My darling, what’s happening?
My chest caves in. “I’m sorry.” The words tumble out. “I’m so sorry, tatie. I didn’t mean— I didn’t think—”
“Doucement, d’accord? Respire.” — Slowly, okay? Breathe.
But I can’t. My breaths come out like they’re tearing my lungs. “You’ve seen the articles, haven’t you? You believe them?”
“I’ve seen them,” she sighs. “And I’ve seen you dance. Je sais que tu n’as besoin de personne pour arriver là où tu es.” — I know you don’t need anyone to get where you are.
I squeeze my eyes shut as tears spill out. “They think I slept my way to the top,” I choke. “That I’m—”
“Ils pensent beaucoup de choses, mon ange,” she interrupts softly. “They think many things, my angel, because they are jealous and cruel. But I know who you are.”
I press the phone harder to my ear, wishing I could crawl through the line and into her arms.
“I want to come home,” I whisper. “I can’t— I don’t want to do this anymore. It was stupid. I was stupid. I just want to disappear,” I mumble. “Forget this city. Forget him. Forget dancing.”
“Non,” she hisses. “You can come home, bien s?r. You are always welcome. But giving up? That I won’t allow.”
“You don’t understand, tatie. They’ve ruined me.”
“Then rest,” she says simply. “Come home, rest. Let them talk until their tongues fall out. But you will not stop dancing. Ce n’est pas toi.”
I bite down on my lip. “What if I can’t anymore?”
“Alors on apprendra encore,” she says — Then we’ll learn again. “Together.”
The sob that rips out of me is ugly. I’m not all alone after all.
“Reviens à la maison, ma petite étoile. Come home, my little star. But don’t quit. Not like this.”
I drop the phone, crawl to the corner, and hug my knees to my chest.
The suitcase sits open, half-zipped, clothes spilling over like entrails. I want nothing more than to run away from all of this.
Then logic creeps in — the part of me that’s been trained to survive. If I’m going to leave, I need money.
I drag myself up and open my laptop, logging into my bank account. The screen loads slow — painfully slow — and I’m ready to see the same number I always do.
Except it’s not the same.
Lucian transferred me money. A lot of it.
More than we agreed on. Way more. The original deal was twenty thousand a week — obscene enough — but this… this is three times that.
Is this supposed to make me feel grateful? Or cheap? I don’t know anymore.
I slam the laptop shut, moving back to the suitcase to pack it better. That’s when I notice something — an envelope slipped halfway under the front door.
Could it be a letter from the press? Or from him? I drag myself up, limping to the door, and pick it up.
The photos inside freeze my blood.
Lucian. And that woman. The one from his office. She’s kissing him, the club lights bleeding red and blue over their faces.
I flip through the rest. More shots. All from the same night.
I can’t see his full face — just a profile. But it’s him. I’m sure it’s him.
That’s where he was last night… he was out with her.
I’m both heartbroken and humiliated.
For a while, I just stare at them, trying to convince myself I don’t care.
But I do care.
I fell for him. For Lucian Morelli. The devil himself.
And I’m the idiot who thought maybe — just maybe — he’s falling too.
My decision has never been clearer.
I’m leaving.
Whatever this was, whatever he made me believe it could be — it ends tonight.