After Divorce: My Arrogant Ex Regrets Calling Me Trash

Chapter 1 No.1 The air in the master bedroom was too cold. It was the first thing Aurora Vance registered before her eyes even opened. It wasn't just the ambient temperature of the central air conditioning set to a sterile sixty-eight degrees; it was a chill that seemed to radiate from her own bones, a phantom sensation from a death she had already died. She gasped, her body jerking upright in the king-sized bed. The sheets, Egyptian cotton with a thread count higher than her credit score used to be, clung to her damp skin. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was the rhythm of survival. She pressed her palms against her face. Her skin felt warm, alive. She wasn't in the hospital bed anymore. She wasn't listening to the flatline of the monitor while Sterling Thorne held a press conference about his "grief" in the lobby. Aurora lowered her hands and looked around. The room was aggressively modern. Chrome accents, black leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey expanse of the Manhattan skyline. It was a cage disguised as a penthouse. She turned her head to the digital clock on the nightstand. 7:00 AM. October 14th. The date hit her like a physical blow. October 14th. The day Sterling Thorne was scheduled to ring the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. The day Thorne Industries would announce their "revolutionary" new algorithm. The algorithm she had written on a cracked laptop in the laundry room while Sterling was out networking. But more importantly, today was the day he would discard her. The heavy oak door to the bedroom swung open with a violence that made the crystal vase on the dresser tremble. Sterling Thorne walked in. He was already dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, his hair coiffed to perfection. He looked like every magazine cover he had ever graced: handsome, sharp, and utterly hollow. He was adjusting his diamond cufflinks, his attention focused entirely on his reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. "You're awake," he said. His voice was dismissive, a throwaway comment. He didn't look at her. He never really looked at her. To him, she was just furniture that occasionally needed maintenance. He walked over to the bed and threw a thick stack of documents onto the duvet. The papers landed with a heavy thud, sliding against her leg. "Sign them," Sterling commanded. He finally turned his gaze toward her, his eyes cold and impatient. "My lawyers say if we file this morning, I can announce my single status during the post-market interviews. It plays better with the investors. The 'eligible bachelor' narrative is trending." Aurora looked down at the documents. Divorce Settlement Agreement. The bold letters stared back at her. In her past life, this moment had broken her. She had cried. She had begged. She had clung to his arm, asking what she had done wrong, promising to be better, to be quieter, to be whatever he wanted. She had humiliated herself because she had loved him. She had believed the lie that she was nothing without him. But now? Aurora reached out and touched the paper. It felt dry and rough under her fingertips. She didn't feel the stinging in her eyes. She didn't feel the constriction in her throat. She felt... light. She looked up at Sterling. For the first time in three years, she saw him clearly. He wasn't a titan of industry. He was a mediocre man standing on a pedestal she had built for him, brick by brick, code by code. "You're quiet," Sterling noted, a sneer curling his lip. "Save the tears, Aurora. We both knew this was coming. You were a fun project, but let's be honest. You're a trailer park girl playing dress-up in a penthouse. It's embarrassing for both of us." A trailer park girl. That was his favorite weapon. He used her humble origins to keep her small, to make her feel grateful for the crumbs of his attention. Aurora swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet hit the plush carpet. She stood up. Her posture shifted. The slump of the submissive wife vanished. She straightened her spine, her chin lifting. She walked past him toward the mahogany desk in the corner of the room. She moved with a fluid grace that she hadn't possessed yesterday--or rather, a grace she had forgotten she possessed until death reminded her who she was. Sterling blinked, momentarily thrown off by her silence. He had prepared a speech about how she wasn't "brand compatible" anymore. Her lack of reaction was ruining his rehearsal. "Did you hear me?" he snapped, stepping into her path. "I said sign the papers. I don't have all day. The car is downstairs." Aurora didn't stop. She didn't even flinch. She simply sidestepped him as if he were a minor obstruction, a piece of luggage left in a hallway. She reached the desk and picked up a heavy fountain pen. It was a Montblanc, a gift she had bought him for their first anniversary. He had never used it. He said it was too heavy. Aurora weighed the pen in her hand. It felt perfect. Balanced. Lethal. She looked down at the signature line. Sterling Thorne. His signature was jagged, aggressive. Next to it, the blank line for Aurora Vance. Memories flashed behind her eyes, fast and sharp. Nights spent analyzing market trends while he sl**t. The codes she wrote that saved his first startup from bankruptcy. The shadow strategies she whispered in his ear before meetings, which he later claimed as his own brilliant ideas. She had given him everything. Her mind, her soul, her dignity. She uncapped the pen. The sound was a sharp click in the silent room. "I'm not negotiating alimony," Sterling said, his voice rising with irritation. "You get the settlement outlined there. It's more money than you've ever seen. Don't get greedy." Aurora laughed. It was a soft sound, barely a breath, but it froze Sterling in place. It was not a bitter laugh. It was the laugh of someone watching a child try to explain quantum physics. "I don't want your money, Sterling," she said. Her voice was steady, devoid of the tremors that used to plague her when she spoke to him. She bent over the desk and pressed the nib to the paper. The ink flowed black and permanent. She signed her name. Aurora Vance. Not Aurora Thorne. Aurora Vance. She capped the pen and tossed the document back toward him. It fluttered through the air and hit him in the ch**t. Sterling fumbled to catch it, his composure cracking. He looked at the signature, expecting a mess, a scribble of protest. But it was elegant, sharp, and legally binding. "You... you just signed it," he stammered. "Just like that?" "Just like that," Aurora said. She walked to the walk-in closet. She didn't look at the rows of designer dresses she had bought her costumes for the doll he wanted her to be. She reached for the top shelf and pulled down a battered leather suitcase. It was the one she had brought with her three years ago. "You're leaving now?" Sterling asked, following her. He sounded confused. He was winning, he was getting what he wanted, but it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like he was losing something he didn't understand. Aurora threw a few essential items into the bag. A pair of jeans. A sweater. Her old laptop. The one with the sticker of a phoenix on the lid. "The agreement says I have thirty days to vacate," Sterling said, regaining his arrogance. "But honestly, the sooner you're gone, the better. I have designers coming to redo the space next week." Aurora zipped the suitcase. The sound was like a zipper closing on a body bag. She turned to face him one last time. "You think you're the one casting me out," she said softly. She walked toward the door, dragging the suitcase behind her. The wheels hummed on the hardwood floor. Sterling blocked the doorway. He was taller than her, broader. He used his physical presence to intimidate, to remind her of the power dynamic. "Walk out that door, Aurora, and you're nothing," he sneered, leaning down. "You go back to the tr**h you came from. No one in this city will look at you twice without my name attached to you." Aurora looked up. Her eyes were dark, endless pools of calm. "You're right, Sterling," she said. "The lifestyle you enjoy... it requires a certain level of genius to maintain." She stepped closer, invading his personal space until he was the one who flinched back. "I hope you took notes," she whispered. She pushed past him. His shoulder collided with hers, but she didn't stumble. She walked out of the bedroom, down the long hallway, and out the front door of the penthouse. As the elevator doors closed, cutting off the view of the luxury she had created, Aurora checked her watch. 7:15 AM. The market opened in two hours and fifteen minutes. She closed her eyes and exhaled. The air in the elevator was stale, but to her, it tasted like oxygen. "Let the countdown begin," she murmured to the empty car. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be. Chapter 2 No.2 The automatic doors of the obsidian-glass apartment building slid open, and Aurora stepped out into the biting October air. The doorman, a man named Henry who had always looked at her with a mixture of pity and disdain, moved to whistle for a taxi. "No need, Henry," Aurora said, her voice cutting through the morning traffic noise. She didn't stop walking. She gripped the handle of her battered leather suitcase and turned right, away from the line of waiting black cars. Henry froze, his hand half-raised. He watched her go, confused. Mrs. Thorne never walked. Aurora moved with purpose. The city was waking up. The smell of exhaust, roasting nuts, and damp concrete filled her lungs. It was gritty, di**y, and real. It was better than the sanitized, lavender-scented air of the penthouse. She needed to clear her head. The adrenaline from the confrontation with Sterling was fading, leaving behind a cold clarity. She had no home. She had no job. She had nineteen dollars in her pocket and a laptop that was three years obsolete. But she had her mind. And she had a map of the future etched into her synapses. She turned down a side street, taking a shortcut toward the subway station. The buildings here were older, the shadows longer. This was the seam between the ultra-wealthy district and the rest of the world. A scream shattered the morning quiet. It was sharp, terrified, and cut off abruptly. Aurora stopped. Her body reacted before her brain did. Her weight shifted to the balls of her feet. In her past life--before Sterling, before the facade of the trophy wife--she had learned to survive in places far worse than this. And in the life she had lived before her death, she had learned skills that didn't belong in a boardroom. She looked toward the mouth of a narrow alleyway about twenty feet ahead. Shadows danced against the brick wall. She shouldn't get involved. She was a woman alone with a suitcase. She should keep walking. But the scream echoed in her memory, overlapping with her own silent screams from the hospital bed. Aurora dropped the handle of her suitcase. She moved toward the alley, her footsteps silent on the pavement. Deep in the shadows, three men had cornered a young girl. She looked like a college student--backpack, oversized hoodie, terror wide in her eyes. One man had her pinned against a dumpster. The other two were laughing, one of them flicking a switchbl**e open and closed. Click. Click. Click. Across the street, parked in the gloom under a scaffolding, sat a sleek black Maybach. Its windows were tinted so dark they looked like voids. Inside the car, Elias Thorne sat in the rear seat, a tablet resting on his knee. The screen displayed a complex financial report on Asian market fluctuations. His face was a mask of indifference, the sharp angles of his jaw illuminated by the blue light of the screen. "Sir," his driver, a stoic man named Graves, said, his voice tight. "There's a situation in the alley. Should I call 911?" Elias didn't look up immediately. "If you wish." His voice was a low baritone, smooth and cold like polished stone. He had seen enough violence in the business world to be desensitized to the physical kind. But then, movement caught his peripheral vision. A woman. She stepped into the frame of the alley entrance. She was slender, dressed in a simple coat that looked too thin for the weather. She didn't look like a hero. She looked like a victim waiting to happen. Elias lowered the tablet. He watched. Aurora didn't yell. She didn't announce her presence. She picked up a glass bottle from the ground. She threw it. The bottle smashed against the wall inches from the kn**e-wielder's head. Glass shards rained down. The men spun around, startled. "Get lost," Aurora said. Her tone was conversational, bored even. The man with the kn**e laughed. It was an ugly, wet sound. "Look at this, boys. A volunteer." He lunged at her. In the car, Graves gasped. "Oh God, she's going to get ki**ed." Elias leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. The thug th**st the kn**e toward Aurora's stomach. Aurora didn't back away. She stepped into the space. Her movement was a blur. She didn't try to overpower him; she didn't have the strength for that anymore. Instead, she used physics. Her left hand shot out, catching the man's wrist, guiding his own momentum past her. There was a sickening crack. The man screamed, dropping the kn**e. Aurora didn't stop. She used his momentum, spinning him around and slamming his face into the brick wall. He crumpled like a wet paper bag. The second man roared and charged. Aurora ducked under his wild swing. She came up inside his guard, driving her elbow into his solar plexus. It wasn't a knockout blow, but it was precise enough to steal his breath. As he bent over, she delivered a sharp kick to the side of his knee. He went down howling. The third man, the one holding the girl, released her and backed away, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked at his two fallen comrades, then at the slender woman standing calmly amidst the carnage. "I suggest you run," Aurora said. She adjusted her coat, smoothing a wrinkle on her sleeve. The third man turned and bolted down the alley. The college student slid to the ground, sobbing. In the Maybach, silence reigned. Graves' mouth was slightly open. "Did you see that? That was... efficient. Who is she?" Elias stared at the woman. He replayed the fight in his mind. Efficiency. Zero wasted movement. She fought like someone who knew exactly where the human body was weak, compensating for her lack of mass with terrifying precision. "Sir, the police are arriving," Graves noted as sirens wailed in the distance. "Do we intervene?" Elias watched as a police cruiser pulled up to the curb, blocking the alley entrance. Two officers stepped out, guns drawn. "No," Elias said, his voice devoid of emotion. "We are merely witnesses. Wait here until the officers take our statement. Do not engage with her." He watched Aurora Vance kneel beside the crying girl. He saw her check the girl's pupils, her hands steady. She looked up, her eyes scanning the street until they locked onto the black tinted windows of his car. She couldn't see him, but he felt she knew he was there. Elias felt a strange, cold prickle at the base of his skull. Curiosity. A dangerous thing. "Graves," Elias said quietly. "Sir?" "After the police clear us, find out who she is." Chapter 3 No.3 The precinct was a chaotic hive of misery and bureaucracy. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a headache-inducing frequency. The air smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and unwashed bodies. Aurora sat on a hard wooden bench, her suitcase tucked protectively between her legs. She had given her statement. The officers were impressed, but suspicious. A woman of her size taking down two armed assailants raised questions they couldn't answer. Across the room, standing near the Captain's office, was Elias Thorne. He had been brought in separately to provide a witness account. He stood in a bubble of silence; the chaos of the station seemed to part around him. His suit cost more than the precinct's annual budget. He hadn't spoken to her. He hadn't offered her a ride. He had simply observed her with those cold, grey eyes as the police ushered them into separate cars. Now, as he finished speaking with the Captain, he turned. He walked toward the exit, his path taking him past her bench. He paused. Aurora looked up. Up close, he was even more imposing. But she also saw the tension in his jaw, the slight pallor of his skin. "You have a unique survival instinct," Elias said. It wasn't a compliment; it was an observation. "Necessary in this city," Aurora replied, her voice cool. Elias looked at her bruised knuckles. Then his gaze drifted to her face. He seemed to be searching for something--fear, pride, recognition. He found none of it. He reached up to adjust his cufflink, his hand trembling slightly. It was a microscopic movement, a glitch in his perfect composure. Aurora's eyes narrowed. She didn't touch him. She didn't need to. She saw the way his pupils were slightly unequal in reaction to the harsh lights. She saw the sheen of cold sweat on his temple despite the cool air. "You should see a doctor about that tremor," she said softly. "And the migraine wrapping around your left eye." Elias froze. His hands stilled on his cufflink. His eyes sharpened, the grey darkening like a storm. "Excuse me?" "Your median nerve isn't the problem," Aurora continued, lowering her voice so the nearby officers would not hear. "It's systemic inflammation triggering a neural spike. You're drinking too much coffee and not sl**ping. It's degrading the myelin sheath." Elias stared at her. The air between them grew heavy. He had seen the best specialists in Switzerland. None of them had diagnosed him from a glance in a di**y police station. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Just a witness," Aurora said. She stood up, picking up her suitcase. "Try magnesium and valerian root. And sl**p." She didn't wait for his response. She walked toward the exit, her heels clicking rhythmically on the linoleum. Elias stood rooted to the spot. The pain in his head throbbed, a brutal reminder that she was right. Graves appeared at his side. "The car is ready, sir." Elias didn't move immediately. He watched the automatic doors slide shut behind her. "Graves," Elias said. "Sir?" "Forget the standard check. I want a full dossier. Where she was born, what she reads, and who taught her medicine." "Yes, sir. Did you get her name?" "Aurora," Elias murmured, testing the weight of the word. "Find her." Chapter 4 No.4 The Bronx tenement smelled of boiled cabbage and damp plaster. It was a smell Aurora hadn't encountered in years, yet it triggered a wave of nostalgia so potent it nearly brought her to her knees. She dragged her suitcase up the four flights of narrow, creaking stairs. The graffiti on the walls had changed, but the peeling paint was the same shade of depressing beige. She reached door 4B. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the tarnished brass knocker. Inside, she heard a cough. A dry, rattling sound. Aurora's heart clenched. Grandpa. In her previous life, Arthur Vance had died six months after she married Sterling. He had died alone because Sterling had forbidden her from visiting "that dangerous neighborhood" during an important merger week. She had obeyed. She had sent flowers. She unlocked the door with the spare key she kept hidden under the loose molding of the doorframe. It was still there. The doors swung open. The apartment was small, cluttered with books and old newspapers. Sitting in a worn velvet armchair by the window was Arthur. He looked older than she remembered, his frame frail, wrapped in a knitted cardigan. He looked up, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Aurora?" His voice was weak, but his eyes lit up. "Grandpa," Aurora choked out. She dropped her suitcase and ran to him, falling to her knees beside his chair. She buried her face in his lap, inhaling the scent of peppermint tea and old tobacco. Arthur st**ked her hair with a trembling hand. "Child, what's wrong? Why are you here so early? Is... is it him?" Aurora lifted her head. She wiped her eyes. "I left him, Grandpa. I signed the papers. It's over." Arthur didn't look sad. He didn't ask about the money or the penthouse. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. "Thank God," he whispered. "I never liked his eyes. Too shiny. Like a shark." Aurora laughed through her tears. "Yeah. Like a shark." She stood up and went to the small kitchenette. She automatically filled the kettle. "I need to crash here for a bit. Just until I get on my feet." "This is your home, Rory," Arthur said. "Always." She brought him a cup of tea. As she handed it to him, she casually checked his pulse. Weak but steady. He was just old and tired. And cold. The apartment was freezing. "The heater broken?" she asked. "Oil is expensive this year," Arthur mumbled, looking away. Aurora's jaw tightened. She looked around the dimly lit room. This man had raised her when her parents died. He had sold his car to pay for her coding camp when she was twelve. And she had let him freeze while she bought Sterling's silk ties. Never again, she vowed. "I need to work," Aurora said. "There's... there's some money," Arthur said. He pointed to a loose floorboard near the radiator. "My burial fund. About five thousand." Aurora froze. "Grandpa, no." "Take it," he insisted. "You need a start. Don't argue with me." Aurora looked at him. She saw the pride in his eyes. He wanted to help. "I'll take it," she said. "But consider it an investment. I'll pay you back with interest." She retrieved the tin box. Inside were stacks of wrinkled twenty-dollar bills. Five thousand dollars. She took out three hundred dollars and placed it on the kitchen table. "This is for oil," she commanded. "I'm calling the delivery company right now. Do not argue." Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes stopped him. Aurora took the remaining cash--four thousand seven hundred dollars. It wasn't much. To Sterling, it was a dinner bill. To her, it was a seed. "I'm going out for an hour," she said. "I need to visit the bank." She walked six blocks to the nearest branch with a cash deposit ATM. She deposited the money into an old, dormant account she had kept hidden from Sterling. As soon as the digital balance updated, she pulled out her phone. She navigated to a trading platform app she had just downloaded. She pulled up the stock market data. The trends were cascading down the screen. She remembered this week. In her past life, she had watched these numbers from the sidelines. She knew exactly which pharmaceutical company was about to fail its FDA trial tomorrow morning. Vanguard Pharma. She didn't just short the stock. That wouldn't yield enough with her limited capital. She navigated to the Options chain. She bought deep out-of-the-money Put options expiring tomorrow. They were dirt cheap because the market expected the d**g trial to succeed. The leverage was insane. If the stock crashed as she knew it would, these options would explode in value by 1000% or more. She hit Execute. Order Filled. She walked back to the apartment, her heart racing not from fear, but from the thrill of the hunt. "What did you do?" Arthur asked when she returned, seeing the fierce look on her face. "I'm robbing the rich, Grandpa," Aurora said, opening her laptop to secure the neighbor's Wi-Fi. "Legally." By tomorrow afternoon, that $4,700 wouldn't just be doubled. It would be a war ch**t. "You look scary when you type," Arthur noted, sipping his tea. "I'm not scary," Aurora said. "I'm just... focused." She pulled a sl**ping bag out of the closet and unrolled it on the floor. "Take the bed, Rory," Arthur protested. "No. I like the floor. It keeps me grounded." She lay down, staring at the cracked ceiling. Sterling was probably popping ch**pagne right now. Elias Thorne was probably running a background check on her. Let them come. Aurora Vance was back online. Chapter 5 No.5 The "Iron Fist" boxing gym in Queens was a cathedral of sweat. It smelled of unwashed wraps, leather, and the distinct metallic tang of bl**d. Hip-hop blasted from blown-out speakers, vibrating the floorboards. Aurora paid the fifteen-dollar day pass with a twenty from Arthur's stash. The guy at the counter, a retired heavyweight with a nose that had been broken three times, looked at her slender frame and grunted. "Don't break a nail, princess." Aurora didn't respond. She walked to the lockers, changed into a pair of worn leggings and a loose t-shirt she had found in her old suitcase. She wrapped her hands slowly. The ritual was calming. Over, under, through the fingers, secure the wrist. She approached the heavy bag. She threw a jab. It was weak. Her form was perfect--shoulder rotation, hip snap, extension--but the power wasn't there. Her muscles had softened during her three years as a trophy wife. The fight in the alley had been pure adrenaline and leverage; here, against the dead weight of the bag, her lack of conditioning was painfully obvious. She gritted her teeth. Again. Thud. Again. Thud. She fell into a rhythm. Sweat dripped down her forehead, stinging her eyes. The pain in her muscles was good. It was real. It meant she was alive. She focused on technique, on the snap, knowing that power would return in time. Half an hour later, the gym door opened. A young man walked in. He was out of place. He wore designer compression gear--Under Armour, but the expensive line. His sneakers were pristine white. He had the confident swagger of someone who had never been punched in the face. Julian Reed. Elias Thorne's nephew. The family playboy. Aurora recognized him immediately. In her past life, Julian had hit on her at a charity gala while Sterling was in the bathroom. Julian scanned the room, looking for a trainer. His eyes landed on Aurora. He paused. He watched her strike the bag. He appreciated the curve of her waist, the sweat glistening on her neck. He walked over, putting on his best charming smile. "Hey," he said, leaning against the pillar next to her bag. "You're hitting that thing like it owes you money." Aurora didn't stop. Jab. Cross. Hook. "It does," she said, panting. Julian laughed. "I'm Julian. I don't think I've seen you here before." "I'm busy," Aurora said. Julian wasn't used to rejection. He stepped closer. "Come on. Let me buy you a protein shake. You look like you could use the calories." Aurora stopped the bag with her gloved hand. She turned to face him. Her expression was deadpan. "And you look like you're about to injure your wrist if you hit the bag with that stance," she said, gesturing to his hands. Julian blinked. "Excuse me? I've been boxing for two years at Equinox." "Equinox isn't a boxing gym. It's a spa with punching bags," Aurora said. "Your wrap is too loose on the thumb. You'll sprain it on a hook." Julian's ego flared. He was being lectured by a girl in thrift store clothes. "Is that a challenge?" Julian grinned. "Tell you what. I'll hit this bag harder than you ever could. If I do, you have dinner with me. If I don't... well, that won't happen." Aurora rolled her eyes. She began to unwrap her hands. "I don't date children." "I'm twenty-five!" Julian protested. "Like I said. Children." Julian stepped up to the bag. He wanted to show off. He wanted to impress the pretty girl with the sharp tongue. He wound up for a massive right hook. He put all his weight into it, his form sloppy, his thumbs slightly protruding because of the loose wrap. He swung. CRACK. The sound wasn't the bag. It was his wrist. "AHH!" Julian screamed, clutching his hand to his ch**t. He doubled over, his face turning white. Aurora sighed. She picked up her water bottle. "Told you," she said. She walked past him toward the locker room. "Wait!" Julian gasped, tears in his eyes. "Help me!" "Ice it. Elevate it. Go to the ER," Aurora called back over her shoulder. "And tell your Uncle Elias that hiring family is a liability." Julian froze, forgetting the pain for a second. "How do you know my uncle?" Aurora didn't answer. She disappeared into the locker room. Julian sat on the di**y gym floor, cradling his swelling wrist. He fumbled for his phone with his left hand. He dialed a number. "Uncle Elias?" Julian whined. "What is it, Julian?" Elias's voice was crisp, impatient. "I'm at the gym. I think I broke my wrist. And... I met a crazy woman. She predicted it. She knew who you were." There was a silence on the other end. "Describe her," Elias said. "Small. Brown hair. Eyes like... I don't know, like she was looking through me. She called Equinox a spa." Elias let out a sound that might have been a sigh. "Go to Queens General," Elias commanded. "I will send Graves to check on you. I have meetings." "You're not coming?" Julian asked, hurt. "No," Elias said. He wasn't going to drop everything for a sprained wrist. "But Julian?" "Yeah?" "If you see her again... do not engage." Chapter 6 No.6 Chinatown was a sensory explosion. Dried seahorses in jars, hanging ducks, the smell of ginger and sulfur. Aurora navigated the crowded sidewalks with ease. She needed ingredients. Her body was weak, and standard vitamins weren't enough. She needed a tonic to boost her qi and accelerate muscle recovery. She ducked into "Chen's Herbal Apothecary," a narrow shop stacked floor-to-ceiling with wooden drawers. Outside, the black Maybach idled at the curb. Elias sat in the back, pressing his fingers against his temple. The headache was back, a blinding white agony that made his vision blur. "Sir," Graves said from the front seat. "We need to get you your medication. The pharmacy is blocks away." "Stop here," Elias gritted out. "Get... something. Anything for pain." Graves hesitated, then nodded. He jumped out of the car and ran into the nearest shop--Chen's Apothecary. Inside, Aurora was inspecting a bin of dried ginseng when Graves burst in. "I need painkillers!" Graves shouted at the bewildered shop owner, Mr. Chen. "Strong ones. Now!" Mr. Chen blinked. "We have herbs. No pills here." Graves looked frantic. He knew his boss was incapacitated. "Herbs then! Whatever works for a migraine!" Mr. Chen looked confused, reaching for a random jar. "That's ginseng," Aurora's voice cut through the panic. "It will raise his bl**d pressure and make the migraine worse." Graves turned, recognizing her. "You. The woman from the alley." Aurora didn't look at him. She grabbed a piece of brown wrapping paper and a charcoal pencil from the counter. She began to write furiously. Corydalis Yanhusuo. Ligusticum Wallichii. White Peony Root. Licorice. She wrote the measurements in grams. Precise. Dangerous if unbalanced. She ripped the paper off and shoved it into Graves' hand. "Give this to Mr. Chen," she ordered. "Tell him to brew it. Three cups of water boiled down to one. Drink it hot. It tastes like dirt, but it will stop the pain in twenty minutes." Graves looked at the paper, then at her. "Why should I trust you?" "Because your boss is currently suffering from a vascular constriction in his brain," Aurora said calmly. "And because I don't have time to watch you k**l him with ginseng." Through the shop window, Aurora could see the silhouette of Elias in the back of the car, slumped against the glass. "Do it," Graves decided. He handed the list to Mr. Chen. "Please. Hurry." Mr. Chen took the list. He whistled low. "Old recipe. Very strong. Who is girl? She is master?" "Just brew it," Graves snapped. Aurora picked up her own basket of roots. She paid Mr. Chen quickly while the old man was weighing Elias's cure. She walked out of the shop. As she passed the Maybach, she didn't look inside. She kept walking, disappearing into the crowd. Inside the car, Elias watched her retreating figure through half-closed eyes. The pain was blinding, but his mind was still recording. She was here. Again. Graves returned minutes later with a thermos of dark, pungent liquid. "She wrote the recipe, sir," Graves said apologetically. "I... I didn't know what else to do." Elias took the thermos. He smelled the bitter earthiness. "She wrote it?" Elias whispered. "Yes, sir. In Mandarin characters." Elias hesitated. It could be poison. But the pain was a living thing eating his brain. He took a sip... ...... What happens next? Available chapters here are limited, click the button below to install the App and enjoy more exciting chapters (Automatically jump to this novel when you open the app) &2&