Page 32 of His Son's Brid

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I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. Gather my clothes, get dressed in the bathroom.

When I come out, he's awake. Sitting up in bed, watching me.

"You're leaving," he says.

It's not a question.

"I have to."

"When?"

"This afternoon. Two o'clock." The words taste like ash. "My father's sending a car."

His expression hardens. "So this is it."

"This is it."

Silence stretches between us, heavy and painful.

"Aurora—"

"Don't." I finally look at him.

His jaw clenches. "We have five hours."

"I know."

"Come here."

"Axel—"

"We have five hours left, Aurora. I'm not wasting them." His eyes lock on mine. "Come here. Please."

I should leave now. Should end this before it hurts worse.

But I cross the room. Climb back into his bed. Let him pull me into his arms.

"Five hours," he says against my hair. "Then what? We just pretend this never happened?"

Yes. No. I don't know.

"Then we go back to our lives," I say quietly. "And we remember this for what it was. Something beautiful that was never meant to last."

I can see the war in his eyes. I wish he’d argue for me to stay.

But instead, he murmurs. "Five hours. I have five hours to imprint myself into your memory.”

6

AURORA

Home.

The word feels wrong in my mouth as I stare up at the iron gates of my father's estate. Behind them, the main house sprawls across manicured lawns—white stone, columns, the kind of ostentatious wealth that screams power.

I used to love this place. Used to run through these gardens as a kid, back when Mom was alive, and the world made sense.

Now it just feels like a cage.

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