The room smelled of lavender. Not the real kind, not from flowers freshly crushed between fingers, but the artificial whisper of it—woven into the fabric softener Damien insisted they use. It clung to the sheets, to the pillows, to her skin. Aurora lay still beneath the heavy duvet, the weight of it pressing her deeper into the mattress like a hand she couldn't fight.
She hadn't slept. Not really.
A hum of silence filled the mansion, but it wasn't peace. It was that eerie stillness right before a predator strikes. The morning sun leaked through the thick blackout curtains, soft and golden, turning the dust in the air into glittering ghosts. Her hand itched to reach for the pregnancy test again—to make sure it was still where she left it, hidden beneath the third drawer in the bathroom. But she didn't move.
Because somewhere in this house, he was awake.
Damien.
The name curled in her stomach like poison. She could still feel the ghost of his voice from last night. "Good girl."
She sat up slowly. Her body ached, not from wounds, but from the tension that never left. Her limbs carried the weight of days spent pretending. Pretending she wasn't trapped. Pretending she wasn't unraveling. Pretending he didn't touch her mind even when he wasn't in the room.
By the time she walked into the bathroom, her eyes were heavy, but her mind was sharp. The mirror reflected a girl she didn't recognize: dull-eyed, pale, and thinner than before. Her once-glossy braids were tied up in a lazy knot. She splashed cold water on her face. The chill bit her skin, but it didn't wake her. Nothing could.
When she opened the bottom drawer, the test was still there. Untouched.
She didn't cry. She just closed the drawer slowly, placed a towel over the counter, and walked back to her room with a new resolve.
She needed to write. Not text. Not call. Just... write.
---
Aurora waited until the clock hit 9:30 a.m. before making her move. Damien was downstairs. She could hear the faint scrape of a spoon against ceramic. Breakfast. His footsteps were always calculated, never rushed. The way he moved through the house was like someone trained to make everything look like a choice.
She slid open her old backpack and pulled out a notebook—the one she hadn't used since before everything changed. Before he took her. Before her name stopped being her own.
She tore out the front page, scribbled something, then paused.
The air smelled like eggs and cinnamon. He was making French toast.
She didn't care.
She hid the journal behind the radiator. Taped it flat, covered it with a worn cloth, then placed a random cardboard box in front. Nothing looked suspicious.
Just in time.
Footsteps. Outside her door.
A knock. Not loud. Not soft. Deliberate.
She opened it.
Damien wore a grey button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was no smile on his face today—only a stillness that made her stomach twist.
"You didn't come down," he said.
She didn't answer.
He held up a plate. Two slices of French toast, syrup glistening like amber. A fork tucked neatly into the side.
"Eat."
Aurora stared at the food. Her stomach turned.
"I'm not hungry," she whispered.
His eyes didn't change.
"You'll eat it anyway."
She took the plate.
---
School was worse.
She sat in class beside Emily, who barely acknowledged her. Emily had always been quiet, even before, but now she felt... distant. Or maybe Aurora was just imagining it. Her brain was starting to twist everything.
She tried to take notes but her hand wouldn't stop shaking.
During lunch, Tiffany appeared again.
Too close. Too smiley. Too loud.
"You look cute today," she said, sliding into the seat next to her like they'd been friends forever.
Aurora didn't respond.
"Damien pick you up again today?"
Her heart dropped.
"I can't wait to see what he gets you for Valentine's Day," Tiffany added, twirling her fork. "Bet it's something expensive. Designer."
Aurora stood up and walked out.
She didn't hear Tiffany call after her.
She didn't care.
---
Back home, the silence greeted her like a claw.
Damien wasn't in the living room. Not in the kitchen. Not upstairs.
Her breath caught.
She found him in the study, seated behind his desk, reading something thick and medical.
He looked up.
"Did Tiffany say something to you today?"
Her blood ran cold.
"Why?"
He placed the paper down.
"She called me. Said you looked upset."
Aurora wanted to scream.
"She's lying."
He watched her, expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, he stood. Walked around the desk. Approached her like she was an animal that might bolt.
His hand reached out—not to grab her, but to brush a strand of hair from her face.
She flinched.
His expression didn't change.
"You don't trust anyone, do you?" he said softly.
She said nothing.
He leaned down, voice barely audible.
"You will."
---
That night, Aurora sat in the bathroom for hours. Lights off. Knees pulled to her chest. Listening.
To the house. To the walls. To her own mind screaming.
She thought about the notebook. She thought about the test. She thought about what it would feel like to disappear.
But she didn't cry.
Because crying was for people who still believed someone was coming to save them.