4

The voices were getting closer. Flashlight beams cut through the twilight like searchlights.

Aurora dropped to her knees in the mud at the edge of the pond. The damp earth soaked into her skin, cold and slimy. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed handfuls of the muck-black, stinking silt-and smeared it over the white cotton.

She ruined the shirt. She rubbed mud into the fabric until the crisp white was gone, replaced by stains that looked like a struggle.

She reached into the water, her fingers tangling in the slimy pond weeds. She ripped a handful out and shoved it into her hair, matting the dark strands against her skull.

It wasn't enough.

She looked at a sharp rock jutting out of the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut and dragged her forearm across it.

The skin split. Blood welled up, bright and hot, mixing with the mud.

Pain sharpened her mind. She let out a sob-half real, half performance-and collapsed onto the grass, curling into a ball just as the first beam of light hit her.

"There! Over by the water!"

Footsteps thundered on the grass.

"Oh my god!" Chloe's voice was high, theatrical.

Aurora squeezed her eyes shut against the glare. She was surrounded.

"Aurora?" Ingrid's voice was sharp. "What the hell are you doing?"

Aurora sat up slowly, trembling. She looked pathetic. Mud-caked, bleeding, wet.

"I..." She coughed. "I slipped."

Chloe pushed to the front, her eyes scanning Aurora's body. She saw the shirt. Her eyes narrowed.

"Where is your dress, Aurora?" Chloe asked, her voice dripping with fake concern. "And whose shirt is that?"

Ingrid laughed, a cruel, barking sound. "That's a man's shirt. Did you slip out of someone's bed and fall into the pond?"

The crowd murmured. Phones were out. Flashes popped, blinding her.

"Disgusting," someone whispered. "At her husband's funeral."

Eleanor Holden, the matriarch, pushed through the crowd. She leaned on her cane, her face a mask of fury.

"Explain yourself," Eleanor demanded. "Now."

Aurora opened her mouth, but her throat was dry. The drug was still humming in her system, making it hard to form words. The accusations were piling up like stones, ready to crush her.

"I fell," Aurora whispered. "I just fell."

"Liar," Ingrid spat. She reached out, grabbing the collar of the shirt. "Let's see who this belongs to. Maybe there's a monogram."

Aurora flinched back, slapping Ingrid's hand away.

"Don't touch me!"

"Enough."

The word was spoken softly, but it cracked through the air like a whip.

The crowd parted instantly. Silence fell over the garden, heavy and sudden.

Adrien Larsen walked into the circle of light. He had changed his jacket, but he was still wearing the same trousers. He looked impeccable. Untouchable.

He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at Eleanor. He walked straight to Aurora.

He looked down at her-at the mud, the blood on her arm, the weeds in her hair. His expression was unreadable.

Chloe stepped forward, a flirtatious smile plastering itself onto her face. "Adrien, I'm so sorry you have to see this. My sister is clearly having a breakdown..."

Adrien ignored her. He took off his suit jacket.

With a fluid motion, he draped the heavy, warm wool over Aurora's shoulders, covering the muddy shirt. He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers.

"You're hurt," he said. It wasn't a question.

Aurora stared at him, her heart stopping. Was he going to expose her? Was he going to tell them she broke into his room?

Adrien turned his head, looking up at Eleanor.

"She didn't slip out of a bed," Adrien said, his voice bored. "She slipped on the moss. I saw it happen from the terrace."

---

5

Ingrid scoffed, though it lacked her usual confidence. "You saw it? Then whose shirt is that, Mr. Larsen?"

Adrien stood up, towering over Ingrid. He looked at her with the same interest one might show a cockroach.

"Mine," he said.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

"Her dress was ruined by the pond water," Adrien continued, the lie rolling off his tongue with terrifying ease. "I didn't think it was appropriate for Mrs. Holden to be seen in wet, transparent silk. So I had my driver fetch a spare shirt from my car."

He looked at Eleanor. "Unless you would have preferred her to walk back to the house naked?"

Eleanor's face paled. "Of course not. That was... very chivalrous of you, Adrien."

The narrative shifted instantly. It wasn't a scandal anymore. It was a rescue. Adrien Larsen, the untouchable billionaire, had saved the grieving widow from embarrassment.

"But Pierce said-" Chloe started, desperate to salvage her sabotage.

"Pierce is drunk," Adrien cut her off. "He wouldn't know a woman from a weeping willow in this light."

He looked down at Aurora and extended a hand.

"Up."

Aurora took his hand. His grip was warm, calloused, and strong. He pulled her to her feet effortlessly. She swayed, dizzy, and he steadied her, his hand lingering on her waist for a fraction of a second too long.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Adrien leaned in close, adjusting the jacket on her shoulders. To the onlookers, it looked tender.

"Don't thank me," he murmured against her ear, his voice dropping to a frequency only she could hear. "This isn't charity, Aurora. You owe me."

He pulled back, his face returning to its marble mask.

"Take her inside," Adrien ordered the staff. "Clean her up."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness without looking back.

Aurora watched him go. The jacket smelled like him-cedar and smoke. It was heavy on her shoulders, like a shield. Or a yoke.

---

6

The guest room was quiet. The maid had scrubbed the mud from Aurora's skin and bandaged her arm. Now, she was alone.

Aurora sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She looked ghostly. Pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, and a small, reddish mark on her neck where the collar of the shirt had rubbed-or where Adrien's fingers had been. She dabbed concealer over it.

The door opened. Eleanor Holden swept in.

"You are lucky," Eleanor said, her voice cold. "Adrien Larsen saved your reputation tonight. And by extension, this family's."

"I know," Aurora said, looking down.

"You will go to his office tomorrow," Eleanor commanded. "You will return his shirt-cleaned-and you will thank him properly. We do not owe debts to men like Larsen."

"I will."

Eleanor left. Aurora let out a breath she felt she'd been holding for hours.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text from an unknown number.

Larsen Tower. Penthouse Office. 10:00 AM. Bring the shirt.

Aurora stared at the screen. He hadn't even signed it. He didn't have to.

Meanwhile, in the back of a Maybach speeding toward Manhattan, Adrien stared out the window at the blurred city lights.

"Silas," he said.

His assistant, sitting in the front seat, turned slightly. "Sir?"

"Pull the financials on Aurora Soto. Everything. Bank accounts, debts, the prenup with Clark."

"Already done," Silas said. "It's not good. She's broke. The Sotos cut her off, and Clark's estate is frozen in probate. She has outstanding loans for her father's medical bills."

Adrien smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who had just found the loose thread in a sweater and was about to pull.

"Perfect," he whispered. He flicked his lighter open. The flame danced in the reflection of the window.

Aurora thought she had escaped the trap in the garden. She didn't realize she had just walked into a cage.

---