In the Mirror of Fire

Aurora had learned to master silence. It was where pain sat quietly, disguised as elegance. Where grief rehearsed itself behind every graceful smile.

And right now, silence was her shield.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, wrapped in a satin robe. The light filtered in through half-closed blinds, casting thin golden lines across her reflection.

Her phone buzzed again. Another anonymous text:

“You’ve been warned once.”

She deleted it without hesitation.

If Damon’s people were digging, let them. Her paper trail had been built for war, layered like armor, buried in places they wouldn’t think to look—because Damon never expected enemies to look like lovers.

Especially not ones he had already buried in his past.

Aurora’s thoughts were interrupted by the soft shuffle of footsteps.

“Mommy?” Caleb peeked around the doorway, his curls messy and eyes still cloudy with sleep.

She turned and opened her arms. “Baby.”

He walked in, dragging a plush lion by the tail. “You forgot to kiss me goodnight last night.”

Aurora scooped him into her lap, pressing kisses to his cheeks. “I got home late. Did you dream about the moon race again?”

He nodded solemnly. “And I won. But Daddy didn’t clap.”

Aurora stiffened.

She had never told him much about his father. Just that he was gone, far away, and couldn’t come back. That had been enough. Until now.

“Why doesn’t he clap for me?” Caleb asked again, leaning into her shoulder.

Aurora took a deep breath. “Sometimes people leave not because they don’t love you, but because they’re scared to stay.”

Caleb frowned. “But I’m brave. I stay.”

She kissed his forehead. “And you’re my hero.”

He smiled, and the world felt momentarily lighter.

---

Thorne Tower — Late Morning

Damon wasn’t himself.

His suits still fit like armor, his voice still struck with the same controlled sharpness, but something was... off. His staff felt it. His assistant treaded carefully. His driver kept glancing in the rear-view mirror as if worried the man behind him might shatter.

Because Damon couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Aurora Devereaux had walked into his company and rearranged its rhythm. She’d exposed cracks in his empire he didn’t know existed. She’d made the board question him—and worse, made him question himself.

But it wasn’t just business.

It was her voice. Her presence. The way she looked at him with eyes that felt like déjà vu and daggers all at once.

Who was she?

And why did he feel like he’d failed her somehow—without knowing when or why?

He stood by the window of his 70th floor office, watching the clouds smear against the skyline. A knock echoed.

“Come in,” he said, still watching the sky.

It was his head of security, a thick-set man named Barrett.

“You asked us to look into Aurora Devereaux,” Barrett said.

Damon turned slowly. “And?”

“She’s clean.”

Damon frowned. “Nobody’s clean.”

Barrett handed him a dossier. “No criminal record. No public family ties. Passport issued five years ago, French origin. Her financial portfolio is legitimate but... hidden well. Offshore. Smart. Layers of trust funds, holding companies.”

“And the strange part?”

“She doesn’t exist before five years ago.”

Damon flipped through the dossier. No school records. No medical. No social media. No childhood.

“She didn’t just appear,” he murmured.

“We’re still digging,” Barrett said. “But if I may, sir...”

Damon raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve worked your cases for eleven years,” Barrett said carefully. “She’s not just here to make money. She’s here for you.”

That thought chilled Damon more than he cared to admit.

---

Downtown Manhattan — Private Charity Gala

The ballroom glittered with excess—diamonds, velvet gowns, and champagne fountains. Damon usually hated these events, but tonight he had a reason to stay.

Aurora was there.

She arrived fashionably late in a backless black dress that made the air in the room tilt. Conversations faltered. Flashbulbs popped. Even billionaires stared.

Damon watched her from across the room, his jaw tense. She smiled at donors, shook hands with senators, but never once looked his way.

Not until he crossed the floor and stood before her.

“Damon,” she greeted, like his name was just a breath.

“You look...”

Dangerous. Stunning. Like a ghost I loved in a dream.

“Appropriate?” she offered.

“Distracting,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Careful, Thorne. You sound like you’re flirting.”

“Maybe I am.”

A flicker passed between them. And in that second, the past tugged.

Damon saw not the woman before him—but a memory. A girl in a white summer dress, laughing beneath a streetlamp. Their hands tangled. Their future unwritten.

But that girl had died.

Hadn’t she?

“I know you,” he said quietly.

Aurora froze.

He stepped closer, his voice low. “I don’t know how or why, but I’ve looked into your eyes before.”

She held his gaze. “Maybe in a past life.”

“Or maybe this one,” he said.

Before she could respond, a reporter approached, camera flashing.

“Mr. Thorne! Miss Devereaux! A picture for the press? Rumor has it you two are more than business partners!”

Aurora recovered instantly, placing a gentle hand on Damon’s arm.

“We’re just building empires,” she said, smiling for the flash.

But Damon wasn’t smiling.

His mind raced.

Because her touch felt right. Familiar. Like something stolen had been returned without explanation.

Who was she?

---

Meanwhile — The Past, Eight Years Ago

The alley smelled of copper and rain.

A young woman, no more than twenty, crouched beside her mother’s unconscious body. Blood pooled beneath the older woman’s head. Sirens wailed in the distance.

The girl screamed for help, but the man in the suit just walked away. Tall. Cold. Familiar.

She would never forget his back. The way his shoulders didn’t slump. The way he disappeared into the storm, leaving them to drown.

“Damon Thorne,” she whispered, hate carving itself into her bones.

That night, Aurora died.

And from her ashes, a new woman was born.

---

Back to the Present — Aurora’s Apartment

The elevator dinged. Aurora entered, heels clicking against the marble.

Her son was asleep. Carla greeted her quietly.

“Any trouble?” Aurora asked.

Carla shook her head. “One missed call. No message. From a blocked number.”

Aurora’s chest tightened.

She entered her study and locked the door. Inside, a board stretched across the wall—clippings, photos, maps.

At the center: Damon Thorne.

Beside him, a photo of his father, Gregory Thorne, with the caption: “SEC Investigation—Charges Dropped, 2017.”

And beneath that, a hospital photo: her mother on a stretcher. No justice. No arrests.

Aurora stared at the map. Her fingers trembled.

“I’m getting close,” she whispered.

But as she touched Damon’s photo, her fingers lingered.

And for the first time in years... she hesitated.

Not because of fear.

But because her heart still remembered the boy he used to be.

And she hated that she still wanted the man he had become.