AURORA
── ? ──
The penthouse bathroom is obscene in its luxury—all white marble and gold fixtures, the kind of space that's bigger than my entire dorm room.
The shower alone could fit four people comfortably, with jets positioned at multiple angles like something out of a spa catalog.
The mirror is backlit, creating a soft glow that's probably meant to be flattering but just makes everything feel surreal.
Evander is sitting on the closed toilet lid, hands braced on his knees, staring at the marble floor. His white shirt is ruined—blood splattered across the front, one sleeve torn at the shoulder. His knuckles are split open, still bleeding sluggishly, bruises already forming across the bones.
I'm kneeling in front of him with a damp washcloth, carefully cleaning the blood from his hands. The water in the sink is running pink, spiraling down the drain in diluted patterns.
Neither of us has spoken since we got back to campus. The flight was silent, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The walk from the car to his building was silent. The elevator ride up to the penthouse was silent.
Even now, the only sound is running water and our breathing.
His hands are shaking slightly under mine. Not from pain—Evander Laurent doesn't flinch from pain. From adrenaline crash. From the comedown after that level of violence.
I've seen this before. My father, after bar fights. After arguments that turned physical. The way the rage burns hot and fast and then leaves you hollow and trembling.
But this is different. My father's violence was always self-serving. Defensive. Protecting his ego or his pride or his access to alcohol.
Evander's violence tonight was protective. Focused entirely on keeping me safe.
And that difference is making something complicated twist in my chest.
"You didn't have to do that," I say quietly, dabbing at a particularly deep split across his knuckle. "Beat him like that."
"Yes, I did." His voice is rough. Raw from screaming at my father. "He put his hands on you."
"He's put his hands on me before. I've survived worse."
His entire body goes rigid. "What?"
I realize my mistake immediately. "Nothing. Forget I said that."
"Aurora." He catches my wrist—gently, despite the blood and the bruises. "What did you mean, you've survived worse?"
I don't answer. Just focus on cleaning his other hand, the washcloth turning darker red.
"Aurora."
"It doesn't matter." My voice is flat. "He's my father. That's just… how it was. How it is."
"How often?" The question is quiet. Dangerous. "How often did he hit you?"
"Evander—"
"How. Often."
I set the washcloth down. Meet his eyes. See something wild and barely controlled burning there.
"Often enough that I learned to predict it," I say carefully. "Often enough that I got good at hiding. At staying quiet. At making sure Liam never saw."
His jaw clenches so hard I hear teeth grinding. "How long?"
"Since I was twelve. Since Mom died and he started drinking more."
"Six years." He says it like he's doing math. Calculating damage. "Six years of him—"
"It's fine." I pick up the washcloth again, needing to do something with my hands. "I survived. Liam stayed safe. That's what mattered."
"It's not fine." His free hand comes up to cup my face, forcing me to look at him. "Nothing about that is fine, Aurora."
"I know." My throat tightens. "But it's over now. I'm here. Away from him."
"Because of me." Something shifts in his expression. Guilt. Actual, genuine guilt. "I'm the reason you got out."
"No." I shake my head. "My grades are the reason I got out. My scholarship—"
"That I made sure you received." His thumb strokes across my cheekbone. "Your grades earned it. But I made sure the committee saw your application first. Made sure the funding was allocated to you specifically."
The confession should anger me. Should remind me of all the ways he's manipulated my life.
Instead, it just makes me tired.
"Why?" I ask quietly. "Why go through all that trouble for someone you'd never met?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just keeps looking at me with those intense blue eyes that see too much.
"I saw your file," he finally says. "Your application. Your essay about surviving, about protecting Liam, about refusing to let poverty be an excuse for failure."
He pauses.
"And I thought—here's someone who understands. Who knows what it means to survive. To protect what's yours at any cost."
"You don't know anything about surviving," I point out. "You've had everything handed to you."
"Have I?" Something dark flashes across his face. "You think growing up in the Laurent family was easy? You think having a mother who views emotion as weakness and a grandfather who treats people like chess pieces taught me anything except how to control or be controlled?"
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to reconcile the privileged prince with the man sitting in front of me, hands bloodied from protecting me, admitting to a childhood that sounds almost as fucked up as mine.
"We're not the same," I finally say.
"No," he agrees. "But we're closer than you want to admit."
The air between us feels heavy. Charged. Like we're teetering on the edge of something neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
"I should finish cleaning these." I gesture to his hands. "Before they get infected."
He lets me. Sits quietly while I work, his eyes tracking my movements with that same intense focus.
When his hands are clean, I realize I need bandages. Antiseptic. The kind of first-aid supplies that someone like Evander probably has in abundance.
"Do you have a first-aid kit?" I ask.
"Desk drawer. Bottom left."
I stand up, my knees aching from kneeling on marble. "I'll be right back."
I walk out of the bathroom into his office. The space is exactly as we left it—laptop still open on the desk, papers scattered across the surface, the leather chair pushed back at an angle.
I cross to the desk. Open the bottom left drawer.
And freeze.
Because sitting right on top of the first-aid kit is a thick black folder.
With my name on it.
AURORA LANE printed in neat block letters across the tab.
My heart starts pounding. Slow and heavy, each beat echoing in my ears.
I shouldn't open it. Should grab the first-aid kit and go back to the bathroom and pretend I never saw it.
But my hands are already reaching for it. Already pulling it out of the drawer and setting it on the desk.
The folder is heavy. Substantial. The kind of weight that suggests extensive documentation.
I open it.
The first page is a photograph. Me, working at the diner back home. The angle suggests it was taken from across the street, zoomed in, capturing me through the front window as I refilled someone's coffee.
I've never seen this photo before. Never knew it existed.
The date stamp in the corner reads eight months ago.
Three months before I even applied to Ardencrest.
My hands are shaking as I flip to the next page.
More photographs. Me walking to the bus stop. Me at the grocery store with Liam. Me leaving the public library with a stack of books.
All dated. All timestamped. All taken without my knowledge or consent.
He was watching me. For months. Before I knew he existed.
I flip faster now. Past the photographs to documents underneath.
And my blood runs cold.
LAURENT HOLDINGS LLC
INTERNAL MEMORANDUM
TO: Harrington Industrial Management
FROM: E. Laurent, Strategic Acquisitions
RE: Employee Termination - William Lane
DATE: Six months ago
As discussed, please proceed with the termination of William Lane (Employee ID: 4729) from his position at Harrington Industrial Plant 3. The stated reason should be performance-related to avoid potential legal complications. Severance package should be minimal—standard two weeks only.
This termination is part of a larger strategic initiative and is time-sensitive. Please confirm completion by end of business Friday.
I read it three times. Four times. The words don't change.
Evander didn't just buy my father's debts after he accumulated them.
He got my father fired. Deliberately. Strategically. As part of a "larger initiative."
My father lost his job six months ago. Started drinking more. Racked up more debt trying to make ends meet. Borrowed from loan sharks when the banks wouldn't help.
And I started applying for scholarships because we were starving.
Because Evander Laurent wanted me desperate enough to take whatever opportunity came my way.
I flip to the next page. And the next. And the next.
It's all there. Every piece of the trap he built. Documented with clinical precision.
The debt purchases. The scholarship committee recommendations. The employment system lock. Even the library attack—there's an email to someone named Mallory Sinclair with a specific dollar amount and instructions to "corner the scholarship girl" at a specific time.
Everything. Every single thing that's happened to me since I got to Ardencrest was orchestrated by him.
But it goes back further than that.
He didn't just manipulate my life at Ardencrest. He manufactured the circumstances that forced me to come here in the first place.
He starved us. Deliberately. Systematically. Made sure my father lost his income so I'd be desperate enough to accept a scholarship from a school I'd never heard of.
The folder slips from my hands. Papers scatter across the desk, photographs fanning out like evidence at a crime scene.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't process what I'm seeing.
The bathroom door opens behind me.
"Did you find—"
Evander stops. I hear it in the sudden silence. The way his footsteps halt.
He sees me. Sees the folder. Sees the papers spread across his desk.
Sees his trap blown wide open.
I turn slowly. My movements are mechanical. Autopilot.
He's standing in the doorway, shirtless now, his ruined clothes left in the bathroom. There's still blood on his skin—missed spots I didn't clean. His hands are still raw and split.
He looks at me. Then at the desk. Then back at me.
And I see the exact moment he realizes there's no talking his way out of this.