Chapter 5
The night of the dinner arrived. The night of my departure. My mother, Eleanor, fussed over my dress, her smile painted on.
"You look beautiful, darling. So elegant."
My father, Richard, stood by, looking proud. "Ready for our special night?"
They were actors giving the performance of their lives. I was the audience of one, and I knew the whole script.
We sat in the private room at The Oak Room. The air was thick with unspoken words. My mother placed a small bowl of soup in front of me. "The chef made his specialty just for you. A creamy mushroom bisque."
I could smell it. The faint, almost undetectable almond scent of the benzodiazepine mixed in. This was Clara's doing, served by the hands of my oblivious mother.
"Thank you, Mother," I said, picking up my spoon. I looked at her, then at my father. "It means so much that you're all here. That we can finally put the past behind us."
Their faces softened with relief. I was playing my part perfectly. I took a spoonful of the soup. Then another. I ate half the bowl, my stomach clenching with each swallow, not from the drug, but from the betrayal.
After a few minutes, I pressed a hand to my forehead. "I'm feeling a little… dizzy. I think I'm still adjusting to being back."
"Oh, you poor thing," Eleanor said, her concern a masterpiece of fiction. "Of course. You should rest."
"Would you mind if I just… went to the powder room for a moment?" I asked, my voice intentionally weak.
"Go, go," Richard urged. "We'll be right here."
I gave them one last look. My parents. The people who were supposed to love me unconditionally.
"Were you ever sorry?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. "For what happened to me? For the year I was gone?"
They stared at me, their smiles faltering. There was a flicker of something in their eyes—guilt, maybe—but it was quickly extinguished.
"Of course, we were, Aurora," my father said, his voice a little too firm. "Every single day."
A lie. Another one. I didn't press. I just nodded. "I'm glad."
I walked toward the back of the restaurant, my steps steady. Once inside the empty, opulent bathroom, I locked the door, knelt before the toilet, and forced myself to throw up, my body convulsing until the soup and the poison were gone. I rinsed my mouth, my face pale but my eyes clear in the mirror.
The dizziness was an act, but the nausea was real.
When I returned to the apartment I had once shared with Julian, he was waiting. He was dressed for Clara's party, his face glowing with anticipation. He was my fiancé, but his heart was at a party celebrating another woman.
"I have to go to the hospital for a bit," he said, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "An emergency consult. I'll be back as late as I can."
"Don't worry about me," I said.
"I'll see you later," he said, giving me a quick kiss. He walked out the door without a second glance. He never looked back.
The moment he was gone, I changed into simple, dark clothing. I walked into the living room, where a single, elegantly wrapped gift box sat on the coffee table. I had prepared it that afternoon. I called the Sterling estate's butler, James, a man who had shown me small kindnesses over the years. "James," I said. "I have a package that needs to be delivered to the party at 10 p.m. precisely. Not before, not after. Can you do that for me?"
"Of course, Dr. Sterling," he said, his voice steady.
Inside the box was the flash drive, a small portable speaker, and a single, handwritten card.
As I prepared to leave, my mind drifted back to the first time I met Julian. I had just been brought to the Sterling mansion from a foster home, a scared, skinny child in ill-fitting clothes. Clara and her friends were teasing me, pushing me into the manicured rose bushes. It was Julian, a handsome teenager visiting with his family, who stepped in. He pulled me up, brushed the dirt from my dress, and stared down the other children until they scattered. "Leave her alone," he'd said, his voice firm. He was my knight that day, the first person in this new, terrifying world to show me kindness. Our love had been built on that foundation, on years of stolen glances, shared secrets, and his promise to always protect me. A promise now broken into a million pieces.
My phone buzzed. A message from Sasha. "Wheels up in 30. You're free."
I dropped my phone into a storm drain, the screen shattering on the concrete below. I had already canceled the number, wiped the data.
Aurora Sterling was gone. I turned my back on the life that had been a lie and walked toward the airport, toward my new life, without looking back.
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