Aurora saw him the second she turned into the parking garage.
Black SUV. Parked two rows from the building entrance. Engine off. Someone sitting in the driver's seat unnaturally still.
Her stomach dropped before her brain caught up.
She knew that car.
She knew him.
"Rora?" Ricky's voice came through the phone speaker. He'd been mid-sentence about the morning's calendar when she'd stopped responding. "You still there?"
"Yeah." Her voice came out steady. Practiced. "Just pulling in. I'll call you back."
"Everything okay?"
"Fine. See you in five."
She ended the call before he could ask anything else.
Her hands were steady on the wheel. Muscle memory. The same way she'd learned to keep her face blank during board meetings when someone said something that made her want to yell.
He's here.
Liam is here.
In my parking garage.
Waiting.
Aurora parked three spaces away from where he was sitting. Close enough to make a quick exit if needed. Far enough that she wasn't obviously running.
She didn't get out immediately.
Thirty seconds. A minute.
In her peripheral vision she could see him. Still sitting there. Watching her car. Waiting to see what she'd do.
Three weeks.
She'd managed three weeks of complete radio silence. Ignored ten calls. Eleven text messages. Five emails that got increasingly desperate and then eerily calm and then desperate again.
She'd deleted every single one without reading past the first line.
Let him spiral. Let him wonder. Let him feel a fraction of what Isabella had felt when no one believed her.
When the boy she'd trusted had looked at her and said —
Aurora cut the thought off. Hard.
Not here.
She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. The mask firmly in place.
She got out of the car.
The cool air bit immediately. She pulled her coat tighter, grabbed her coffee and phone, and started toward the building entrance without looking at his car.
Maybe if she just walked past —
His car door opened.
His footsteps echoed off the concrete. Sharp. Unavoidable.
Aurora's head turned reflexively before she could stop herself.
He looked different. Far from the polished billionaire CEO facade he was known for.
Faint shadows under his eyes. The suit fit perfectly but hung wrong, like he'd lost weight. And yet he moved toward her the same way he did everything — with complete deliberateness. Like he'd weighed the cost of being here and decided it was worth it.
That was the part that irritated her.
She thought about the comments she'd made herself read. They're so beautiful together. The way he looks at her — that's not nothing. Thousands of strangers watching seventeen seconds of a dance and deciding they understood something.
They didn't understand anything.
Neither did he.
Let him come, then. Let him see what it costs.
"Aurora."
Not a question. Not tentative. Just her name, said quietly, like he had the right to it.
She turned back toward the building entrance. Kept walking. "You need to leave."
"I need five minutes." His voice was level. "That's all."
"No." Flat. Final. "We have nothing to talk about."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
Aurora stopped ten feet from the entrance.
Turned.
Liam had stopped as well. Close enough to talk. Far enough to give her space — and she noted that. Calculated. He wasn't crowding her. Wasn't performing desperation.
He was just watching her. Still and direct, the way he'd watched her across every room they'd shared before the Orlando dance.
Waiting.
She filed that away.
"You're trespassing," she said, in the tone she reserved for people who had stopped being worth her patience. "This is private property. Security is one call away."
"I know." He held her gaze. Didn't flinch. "I know how this looks. I'm here anyway, because you weren't answering and I needed to understand—what did I do?"
Aurora studied his face. Looking for the performance.
Found control. Exhaustion underneath it. Something intent and unresolved that he wasn't bothering to hide.
Is this real? Is he actually hurt?
She didn't let herself linger on it.
He didn't know. He could spend the rest of his life not knowing.
"You didn't do anything," she said. The lie came easily. She'd had three weeks to sharpen it. "We had some professional conversations. That's all it was."
"That's not true."
"We're competitors, Liam." She let a small smile surface. The kind that closed doors. "Whatever you thought was happening — you were mistaken."
Something shifted in his jaw. A tightening, quickly controlled.
"Then why did you run?" Quiet. Direct. Not wounded — pressing. "In Orlando. We were talking and then something changed and you left. I'd like to know what I said."
Her jaw tightened in response. She felt it and controlled it.
"You said nothing," Aurora said. Cool. Unbothered. "I was tired. I had an early flight. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression."
The apology landed exactly how she intended it to. Dismissive. Diminishing. Like she was gently correcting a misunderstanding with someone who had read too much into a courtesy.
She watched him absorb it.
Watched something move through his expression—not pain folding under pride, but a kind of recalibration. Like he was deciding whether to believe her or keep pushing.
"Aurora—"
The glass doors behind her opened.
They both turned.
Ricky stepped out into the parking garage. He must have been waiting in the lobby. Wondering why she hadn't come up yet.
He saw her first. Then his eyes shifted to Liam and his entire posture changed.
The way Ricky's shoulders squared. Hands coming out of pockets. His weight shifting forward.
Protective.
Let Liam see that.
"Everything okay here?" Ricky's voice was casual. His body language wasn't.
"Fine." Aurora's answer came automatically. "Just wrapping something up."
Ricky walked toward them anyway. Positioned himself slightly closer to Aurora than to Liam.
Creating space. Claiming territory.
Aurora didn't stop him.
Watched Liam instead.
Watched his eyes track Ricky's movement. Watched something in his jaw tighten—barely, quickly suppressed.
Noted.
"Funny place to wrap something up," Ricky said lightly. "Before business hours."
"Ricky—"
"Richard Fox." His eyes cut straight through Liam. He didn't offer his hand. "Rora AI's COO and Ms. Castillo's personal assistant."
Professional title. Formal distance.
But his hand was already moving to Aurora's shoulder.
Contradicting every word.
Aurora watched Liam's gaze follow the movement. Watched it settle there for exactly one second before he pulled his attention back to her face.
His expression gave her nothing.
That was interesting.
Not rattled. Not performing indifference. Just—closed. Registering.
He's jealous, she decided. Quiet about it, but jealous.
"Liam Ashford," Liam said. His voice had gone carefully neutral.
"I know who you are." Ricky's expression didn't change. "You're the one who's been calling."
A muscle moved in Liam's neck. He caught it.
Aurora filed it away. He doesn't like looking desperate. Doesn't like being named.
All useful information.
"I was trying to reach Aurora through appropriate channels—"
"She wasn't responding." Ricky cut him off. Calm. Reasonable. "That's a response."
Liam's hands flexed at his sides. Once. Quick. Controlled immediately.
"With respect," he said carefully. "This is between Aurora and me."
"Nothing about this is respectful," Ricky said, shifting position slightly. More fully between them. "You've shown up at her workplace before business hours after three weeks of her making it clear she doesn't want contact."
The air between them crackled.
She should stop this.
Didn't.
Wanted to see what Liam would do.
Wanted to see how far his desperation went.
"How do you know what she wants?" Liam's voice had gone quiet.
Ricky didn't blink. "Because she told me. This morning. When she saw your number for the fourth time this week and asked me to block it."
Aurora slightly raised a brow.
Ricky was improvising. Protecting her.
But the lie would stick.
Liam's eyes cut to her. Sharp. Demanding an explanation.
She held his gaze. Didn't deny it. Kept her expression politely bored. The look she gave people were irrelevant.
She watched that land.
Watched him go very still.
"I see." Flat. "My apologies for the intrusion."
He took a step back.
Aurora said nothing.
Liam turned to leave.
And then—before she could stop herself, before she could think it through—
"Liam."
He stopped. Looked back.
His expression was composed. Waiting. Giving her nothing.
She thought of seventeen seconds of footage. Thousands of comments. The way he looks at her.
They had no idea.
"Please," Aurora said. Steady. Deliberate. "Don't do this again. It's embarrassing for both of us."
The words landed where she aimed them.
And for just a half-second—less than that, barely a breath—something moved across his face.
Not anger. Not embarrassment.
Hurt. Clean and unguarded, the kind that couldn't be performed.
Then it was gone. His expression settled into something completely blank. The mask of a man who had decided the conversation was over. But Aurora had seen it. Had watched him reach for the mask and noted exactly how long it took to arrive.
Long enough.
"Understood," he said.
And walked away.
No argument. No plea.
Just—back toward his car. Unhurried. Like he'd come here with a purpose and now he was finished.
Ricky's hand settled more firmly on Aurora's shoulder.
"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's get you inside."
She let him guide her toward the entrance. Let him open the doors.
Before they stepped through, Aurora glanced back.
Just once.
Liam was at his car. Hand on the door handle. He'd stopped.
He was looking at them.
At Ricky's hand still resting on her shoulder.
Their eyes met across the parking garage one last time—his expression unreadable, hers deliberately empty—and for one fraction of a second something moved behind his gaze that she couldn't name before it was gone.
Then he got in his car. Closed the door.
The engine started.
She watched him pull out. Drive toward the exit. Disappear around the corner.
Gone.
They went inside.
The lobby was bright and warm after the cold garage. Aurora's heels clicked against marble as they crossed to the elevators.
Ricky hit the button. Waited beside her.
"Rora?" His voice was gentle. "You okay?"
"Fine." Automatic.
"Rora—"
"Did you see his face?" She looked at Ricky. "When you touched me?"
Ricky's expression shifted. Something careful settling over his features. "Yeah. I saw."
"He was jealous." Precise. Useful. "So he's falling. The plan is working."
Ricky said nothing. Just watched her.
"Ricky?"
"Yeah," he said finally. His voice was flat. "Seems like it."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm convinced." He looked away. Studied the elevator panel. "He's falling. That's obvious."
"Then what's the problem?"
"No problem." Too quick.
The elevator arrived. Doors opened.
They stepped in.
Aurora pressed her floor. Waited.
"Ricky?"
He met her eyes. Something in his expression she couldn't quite read.
"Just be careful." Quiet. "Men like that—they don't mean to hurt people. That's what makes it worse."
The doors closed before she could respond.
Aurora leaned against the elevator wall.
She rolled her shoulders once. Loosened her jaw. Let the silence of the elevator do its work.
She'd aimed precisely and she'd seen it land.
That was the part she kept returning to.
One half-second. Unguarded. Real.
He was falling. She hadn't imagined it. The evidence was there—catalogued, confirmed, filed away.
The plan was working exactly as it should.
So why did his silence feel more like a warning than a wound?
The elevator doors opened on her floor.
Aurora walked to her office. Closed the door. Sat down at her desk.
Pulled up her work file. Started reading.