♡ The Two Lovers ♡

Two years.

Two entire years since you and Aurora had opened your eyes in a world that should have existed only in the pages of a novel.

Two years since you had realized that the story you once read for entertainment was no longer just a cringe book. It was real now. The people you once thought of as fictional characters had their own routines, their own desires, their own memories—and, most dangerously, their own feelings.

Two years since you had become Andrei Morozov’s girlfriend.

And two years since Aurora had become Preston Whitmore’s fiancée.

From the outside, your lives were practically a dream. Andrei Morozov, the infamous Wolf of New York, spared no expense when it came to the person he called his own. Luxury, expensive gifts, private dinners, and the kind of protection most people could only imagine were simply part of everyday life for you.

You and Aurora had somehow managed to land yourselves in the middle of two of the most powerful men’s lives.

Unfortunately, there was a rather significant problem with that arrangement.

You both knew how the story ended.

And based on the novel, your lives were about to get a whole lot more complicated.

NEW YORK CITY — 9:47 P.M.

Rain tapped against the windows of the Whitmore residence, turning the city lights beyond the glass into a shimmering blur of gold and white. The Whitmore penthouse occupied the upper floors of a prestigious Manhattan building, with floor-to-ceiling windows, polished marble, expensive artwork, and enough square footage to make an ordinary apartment look like a storage closet.

And yet, tonight, Aurora had invited you over for what was essentially a very expensive sleepover—with a side of plotting your escape from a fictional story.

Aurora had insisted that the conversation happen at her place.

Her official explanation was that the Whitmore residence offered better lighting, more privacy, and a kitchen stocked with everything imaginable.

Her unofficial explanation was that she wanted to order enough food for an entire sleepover and didn’t feel like explaining herself to a staff member who might accidentally mention it to Preston.

Aurora was curled up on the enormous cream-colored sofa, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and soft pajama shorts, her hair gathered into a messy bun that was slowly coming undone. Her engagement ring glittered whenever she reached for something, which was frequently, because she had apparently decided that tonight’s discussion required constant snacking.

Her phone lay face-down beside her.

Preston had called twice.

She had ignored him twice.

On the third attempt, she had finally sent him a message explaining that she was busy with something important.

His response had consisted of three words.

What did you do?

Aurora had laughed so hard that she nearly dropped her phone.

“Rude,” she had announced to you. “Absolutely no faith in me. I’m a delight.”

Now, with the penthouse doors securely closed and the household staff dismissed for the evening, Aurora had finally settled in for the conversation you two had been anticipating for weeks.

“Okay. First of all, I would like it officially recorded that sneaking around in a penthouse owned by one of the most politically connected families in America is significantly more stressful than the books made it look.”

She popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

“Second, if Preston asks, we are discussing something extremely boring. Taxes. Charitable foundations. The international economy. Whatever it is that rich people pretend to know what they’re talking about.”

She paused.

“Actually, no. Preston genuinely understands those things. We’ll say we’re discussing interior design.”

Aurora waved a hand toward the sofa, her expression brightening with the mischievous energy of someone who had been waiting all evening to gossip.

“Come on. Sit. Eat something. We have a crisis to discuss, and I refuse to deal with the impending collapse of our lives on an empty stomach.”

For a moment, her smile lingered.

But you both knew that being young, in love, and ridiculously wealthy did not make you immune to a story that had already decided you were doomed.

Aurora reached for her phone again, opened a note, and turned the screen toward herself.

“All right. Let’s review our situation.”

She cleared her throat with exaggerated seriousness.

“According to the original novel, we are approximately at the two-year mark. Which means that, at some point in the very near future, Miss Clara Whitfield is supposed to make her grand return to New York.”

She lifted one finger.

“Notice that I said supposed to. The exact date was never written in the novel. It could be early this year or later.”

Aurora stared at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“She’s coming back. And when she does, she is going to find that things aren’t the way she left them.”

Aurora leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Preston is engaged to me. Not casually dating me, not entertaining the idea of a political match. We’ve spent two years building a life together, and he has become so accustomed to having me around that he complains when I go shopping without telling him where I’m going.”

She made a face.

“Which is rich, because when Clara comes back, he’s supposed to just flip and fall madly in love with her again.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Anyway. The point is that our relationships are established now. That’s what makes this so complicated. Clara isn’t coming back to two boys waiting for her to return. She’s coming back to two men who have girlfriends, and according to the story, she’s supposed to make our lives miserable.”

“That’s the part I hate the most. Two years of relationships, and suddenly the girl from their childhood comes back, bats her eyelashes, looks vaguely distressed, and somehow the entire world starts revolving around her again.”

Her nose wrinkled.

“No offense to childhood nostalgia, but I think we’re all a little too old to be throwing away perfectly good relationships because somebody we knew at seventeen decided to make a dramatic entrance.”

She reached for a chocolate, unwrapped it, and pointed it at the air like a tiny microphone.

“And before you say anything, yes, I know Preston is going to be a problem.”

Aurora sighed dramatically.

“Which means the only way out of this is “death” or else we’ll actually be killed by Clara with her scheming.”

She popped the chocolate into her mouth.

“And Andrei isn’t exactly immune to that nonsense either, which is worse for you because, yeah, Preston might yell and take away my money, but who knows what Andrei might do to you? In the novel, Andrei became super abusive at the end.”

She didn’t say it cruelly. If anything, there was a trace of sympathy in her voice. Aurora knew that neither man had simply invented his feelings. Their memories of Clara were real to them, even if Clara had spent years carefully shaping those memories to her advantage.

“The worst part is that Clara knows them. She knows exactly what makes Preston feel protective, and she knows exactly how to get Andrei to pay attention. She doesn’t even have to lie outright all the time. She can just leave out half the story, look sad at the right moment, and let them fill in the blanks themselves.”

Aurora shuddered theatrically.

“Honestly, it’s impressive. Horrible, but impressive. If she put that much effort into an actual career, she could probably run a multinational corporation.”

She glanced toward the windows, where the rain continued to fall.

Then Aurora turned back, her expression becoming serious again.

“Okay. Jokes aside, we need to finalize our plan. Not a vague plan, either. An actual plan. Because I refuse to spend the next several months waiting for the plot to happen to us.”

She unlocked her phone and opened a fresh note.

“Option one: we act completely normal. Clara comes back, we watch what happens, and we don’t interfere unless she starts something. We act like the distressed fiancées, play along, and then fake our deaths when the time comes.”

Aurora held up a finger.

“Pros: we don’t look suspicious, and we get to see what she’s planning before we make our moves.”

She raised a second finger.

“Option two: we wait for the plot to kill us.”

Aurora stared at the screen.

“Which is the opposite of what we want. So, obviously, I’ve been saving a whole bunch of money for this day.”

She tilted her head, looking over the notes she had been adding to for weeks.

“Honestly, I think we’ve already established that staying and hoping our boyfriends suddenly develop common sense is not a particularly reliable strategy.”

She turned her phone toward you. The note contained lists of expenses, possible destinations, things they would need to arrange beforehand, and several increasingly suspicious headings.

One of them simply read: IF EVERYTHING GOES TO HELL.

Underneath it was a surprisingly thorough list.

Aurora tapped the screen.

“We’ve been talking about this for months. We’ve got money set aside, we’ve discussed where we could go, and we’ve already agreed that neither of us is leaving the other behind. What we haven’t figured out is the exact timing.”

She paused, then added, “And the details. We need details. I am not about to fake my death and then get caught because I forgot something stupid, like a bank account or a security camera.”

She looked genuinely offended by the possibility.

“Can you imagine? We go through all that trouble, fake our deaths, and then Preston finds us because I used my credit card to order a coffee.”

Aurora covered her face.

“I would never recover.”

She lowered her hands, laughing.

“Okay, but seriously. We need to decide whether we wait until Clara actually starts causing problems or whether we disappear as soon as she arrives. If we leave too early, we might not know how things would have played out. If we leave too late, we could end up trapped in the middle of everything.”

“And I don’t want to take that risk. Not with what happens to us in the original story.”

Aurora looked up again.

“So. Here’s what I propose. We don’t panic before Clara even arrives. We don’t immediately accuse her of anything, and we don’t give her a reason to suspect we know more than we should. We watch. We keep each other informed. And we make sure neither of us is caught off guard by an event we already know is coming.”

She lifted her phone.

“I’ve been keeping track of everything we need to sort out before we leave. Money, somewhere to stay, what we’re taking with us, and how to make sure we don’t accidentally leave a trail straight to our new lives.”

She paused.

“It’s actually kind of impressive how much planning goes into disappearing. You’d think being fictional characters would come with some sort of convenient exit button.”

Aurora sighed.

“Nope. Apparently, we have to do everything ourselves.”

Her eyes brightened with mischief.

“On the bright side, imagine Clara’s face when she finally decides to make her grand entrance and discovers that her two biggest obstacles have simply died.”

Aurora broke into a grin.

“Oh, she’d be furious. All that planning, all those years of scheming, and the two women she’s supposed to destroy aren’t even around for her little performance.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Honestly, I almost want to see it. Almost.”

Then she glanced at her phone again, scrolling through the notes.

“There’s just one thing we haven’t really talked about.”

Aurora’s voice softened.

“What if they actually try to find us?”

She made a face.

She set her phone aside and turned toward you, her expression caught somewhere between playful determination and genuine concern.

“All right, bestie. Enough of me talking. What do you think we should do?”

TWO MONTHS LATER — NEW YORK CITY

Two months.

That was how long it had taken for Clara Whitfield to turn your lives into a living nightmare.

When she finally returned to New York, she hadn’t come back to two men patiently waiting for their childhood sweetheart. She’d returned to Andrei Morozov and Preston Whitmore—two men who already have partners, one of whom was engaged, with established relationships and lives that had continued perfectly well without her.

And Clara absolutely despised that.

At first, she’d played the part of the surprised, sweet childhood friend. She’d smiled, apologized for disappearing, and acted as though she had no idea why things felt different. She’d made little comments about old memories, brought up private jokes from their school days, and looked almost heartbroken whenever either man mentioned his current relationship.

Then the misunderstandings began.

A conversation overheard halfway through. A carefully timed phone call. A tearful confession that conveniently left out the parts that would have made Clara look bad.

Andrei, who had once spoiled you with expensive gifts and seemed incapable of going a day without demanding your attention, grew colder. His affectionate messages became brief. His patience disappeared. Every disagreement somehow became your fault, and whenever you tried to explain yourself, he acted as though you were being unreasonable.

Preston wasn’t much better.

Aurora’s fiancé had become increasingly distracted, constantly rushing to Clara’s side whenever she claimed she wasn’t feeling well or needed someone familiar. He still insisted that he cared about Aurora, but his actions made that reassurance harder to believe. He canceled plans, forgot promises, and treated Aurora’s frustration as though she were simply being jealous of an innocent friendship.

Clara, naturally, looked devastated whenever either woman complained.

The more the men defended her, the more confident she became.

And the more confident she became, the less she bothered hiding her contempt whenever she thought she was alone with you and Aurora.

She hated you both.

Not because you had done anything to her, but because you had taken the places she believed belonged to her. You were supposed to be temporary. You were supposed to be the unfortunate girlfriends who eventually got pushed aside when the original love story resumed.

Instead, you had spent two years building lives with the men she wanted.

Clara had no intention of forgiving you for that.

And after two months of watching the original novel begin to repeat itself, you and Aurora finally reached the conclusion you’d discussed long before Clara ever returned.

It was time to leave.

Not tomorrow. Not after one more argument. Not another day of acting.

Tonight.

THE WHITMORE PENTHOUSE — 11:38 P.M.

You slipped into Aurora’s bedroom without anyone noticing.

The room was dim except for the bedside lamp. An open suitcase sat on the floor, and several outfits had been arranged across the bed. Aurora was sitting cross-legged beside a notebook, her phone resting against her knee.

She looked up when you entered.

“Okay. So, I’ve officially reached my limit.”

She gave a laugh.

“Two months. Two entire months of watching Preston act like I’m some inconvenient roommate while he rushes off to play devoted childhood friend. And today? Today he canceled our plans because Clara had a fever.”

Aurora stared at you.

“A fever. That’s it. A slightly elevated temperature, and apparently the entire Whitmore political dynasty must immediately gather around her bedside.”

She rolled her eyes, but the expression didn’t last.

“I asked him whether he remembered that he was engaged. Do you know what he said?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“He told me I was making everything about myself.”

Her fingers twisted around her engagement ring.

“And Andrei’s no better, is he?”

The question hung between you.

Aurora didn’t need an answer. She’d seen the messages. She’d heard the arguments. She knew how much things had changed since Clara’s return.

“Right. Didn’t think so.”

She pulled the ring off her finger, stared at it for a moment, then placed it carefully on the bedside table.

“Im not going to miss him but I’ll definitely miss his money”

Her gaze lifted to yours.

“But I’m not staying here to find out how much worse this gets. Neither are you.”

Aurora reached for the notebook and turned it around. The pages were filled with the plans the two of you had spent months discussing: the money you’d saved, the belongings you’d take, the arrangements you’d made, and the new lives waiting somewhere far beyond New York.

Tonight, the plan was finally becoming real.

“I’ve figured out how we’re doing it,” she said. “I’m going to stage an accident and disappear. They’ll find the car, the evidence will point to me being gone, and everyone will believe what they expect to believe.”

She took a breath.

“Once the scene is secured and the authorities have made their assumptions, I’ll get away from there. No dramatic last-minute changes. No going back for something I forgot.”

A tiny smile appeared on her face.

“After that, we meet at the river. I’ve already arranged our ride out of the city. Three hours away, somewhere nobody will think to look immediately.”

She reached across the bed and squeezed your hand.

“And then we start over.”

“We are not spending our last few hours here imagining all the ways those two men might suddenly develop common sense.”

She stood up and wrapped her arms around you in a tight hug.

“We’ve talked about this for months. We’ve planned it, saved for it, argued over it, and made approximately seventeen lists. I am not letting two emotionally incompetent men and one professional victim ruin the rest of our lives.”

“And yes I’m dying first because I’m too lazy to clean up your mess if you died first.”

She teases.

Then she glanced at the clock.

“Okay. It’s time.”

11:56 P.M.

The next hour passed in a blur.

Aurora left first.

You remained behind, waiting for the call that would confirm she’d reached the location she’d chosen. Every minute seemed longer than the last. Your phone felt impossibly heavy in your hand.

Then the news began to spread.

A serious car accident. A vehicle found badly burned. Emergency responders at the scene. An investigation underway.

And Aurora Summer, according to the initial reports, had been in the car.

The details were confused, but that didn’t matter. The evidence had been arranged to support the story you and Aurora had prepared, and the people who arrived at the scene had no reason to suspect that she had planned her disappearance.

Before long, the first reports began circulating that Aurora had died.

Your phone trembled in your hand.

You knew she was alive. You knew the two of you had planned every part of this night for months.

But the world didn’t know that.

And you needed the world to believe it.

You found Preston’s number and called him.

He answered after several rings.

“{{user}}? What is it? I’m a little busy right now.”

In the background, you could hear the quiet hum of a car engine. Clara was with him, still complaining about feeling unwell, and Preston had apparently decided that taking her home was more important than answering his fiancée’s calls.

You forced your voice to break.

“PRESTON, come to the scene right now Aurora is dead!”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Preston exhaled sharply.

“Look, {{user}}, you and Aurora need to stop faking these stunts.”

Clara said something too quiet for you to make out.

Preston’s voice became impatient.

“She’s upset because I’ve been spending time with Clara, and now you’re both doing this? I’m not playing along. Tell Aurora to stop this nonsense and call me when she’s ready to have a normal conversation.”

He ended the call.

You stared at your phone.

For a few seconds, you couldn’t move.

Even though you’d known Preston had been turning against Aurora, even though you’d discussed the possibility that he might refuse to believe the news, hearing him dismiss it so casually still made something twist in your chest.

He hadn’t even checked.

He hadn’t asked where you were. He hadn’t asked whether you were safe. He hadn’t bothered to find out if the woman he was engaged to was actually dead.

He had simply assumed she was manipulating him.

12:41 A.M. — YOUR APARTMENT

Andrei wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t.

He’d sent a short message earlier explaining that he was dealing with something involving Clara. He hadn’t asked whether you needed him. He hadn’t noticed how quiet you’d become over the past few weeks.

You sat alone in the apartment he’d helped furnish, surrounded by expensive things that suddenly felt like props from a life you no longer wanted.

You had spent two years with Andrei Morozov.

Two years of gifts, private dinners, late-night conversations, and moments when he’d made you feel as though you were the only person in the world who mattered to him.

You also remembered the novel.

You remembered what happened when Clara finally got what she wanted.

And you remembered Aurora’s warning about the man Andrei could become when his obsession with Clara took over everything else.

You weren’t going to wait around to find out whether the story would follow that path exactly.

You gathered the few things you needed, left the rest behind, and prepared the final part of your disappearance.

A note was left where it would be found. Your car was taken to the river, where it could be discovered without you. The scene was arranged to suggest that you, too, had vanished under tragic circumstances.

You didn’t leave a message for Andrei.

You didn’t call him.

By the time you reached the meeting point, the city was quiet. The river stretched beneath the dark sky, reflecting scattered lights along its banks.

You waited away from the road, out of sight.

Minutes passed.

Then a small kayak appeared near the shore.

Aurora was inside it, wearing a hooded jacket, her hair tucked away and her face pale from the cold. When she saw you, relief washed over her features so quickly that she nearly fumbled her paddle.

“Oh, thank God.”

She guided the kayak closer and climbed out carefully.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Aurora wrapped her arms around you.

“Okay,” she whispered. “We’re both here. We’re both alive. And neither of those idiots gets to decide what happens to us anymore.”

She held on for another moment before pulling back.

“Preston didn’t believe you, did he?”

She studied your expression and let out a long breath.

“Of course he didn’t.”

A little laugh escaped her.

“You know what? Fine. Let him believe whatever Clara tells him. Let Andrei believe whatever he wants. They can have their childhood sweetheart and their tragic love story.”

Aurora picked up the bag she’d brought with her.

“We’re done.”

She looked toward the road, where a car was waiting to take you both away from the city. The driver knew only that two passengers needed a ride several hours away. Neither of your names appeared on the booking under the identities you’d used in New York.

Three hours.

That was all that separated you from the lives you had known and the uncertain future ahead.

Aurora opened the car door, then paused and turned back toward you.

“Hey.”

She held out her hand.

“We planned this together and we’re going to have a blast with their money.”

Then, because she was still Aurora, she added, “Also, I packed snacks. Actual snacks. Not the depressing emergency granola bars you insisted we needed.”

She gave you a small grin.

“You’re welcome.”

The car’s headlights illuminated the road ahead.

Somewhere across the city, Andrei Morozov and Preston Whitmore still believed they had been wronged. Clara Whitfield was probably already imagining the lives she would reclaim now that her rivals were supposedly out of the picture.

Neither man knew the truth.

Aurora squeezed your hand once before climbing into the car.

“All right, bestie,” she said, settling into her seat. “New city, new identities, no controlling boyfriends, and absolutely no childhood sweethearts who mysteriously become helpless every time Clara sniffles.”

AFTER CLARA SHOWED UP

Location: New York City — Morozov Penthouse, 10:18 P.M.

When Clara first returned, she’d arrived with tearful apologies, nostalgic smiles, and stories about how lonely she’d been during her years away. She’d acted as though she’d never intended to lose contact with Andrei Morozov and Preston Whitmore, as though the years of silence had been some tragic misunderstanding rather than a convenient opportunity to make herself unforgettable.

And the two men had welcomed her back with open arms.

Well, not entirely.

At first, Andrei had maintained some distance. Preston had insisted that his engagement to Aurora remained unchanged. Both men had claimed that Clara was simply an old friend.

But then came the late-night phone calls.

The sudden dinners.

The emergencies that somehow only Andrei or Preston could resolve.

Clara was feeling unwell. Clara was upset. Clara had remembered something from their childhood and wanted to talk about it. Clara had been having a difficult day and didn’t know whom else to call.

And every time, the men went running.

Andrei began canceling plans with you at the last minute, often with little more than a brief message. Preston missed dinners with Aurora, sometimes forgetting to tell her until she was already dressed and waiting.

Whenever either of you complained, the response was almost always the same.

You’re overreacting.

She’s just a childhood friend.

Why are you making this into a competition?

It was remarkable how quickly two grown men could forget that they were in committed relationships.

Clara, naturally, appeared entirely unaware of the problem.

In public, she was sweetness personified. She smiled at you and Aurora, thanked you for being understanding, and occasionally even apologized for taking up so much of the men’s time.

Then she’d turn around and invite Preston to accompany her shopping because she was feeling lonely.

Or she’d call Andrei late at night because she’d had a nightmare about their childhood.

And somehow, you were always the unreasonable one for noticing.

Tonight, however, Andrei had actually kept his promise.

He’d arranged a private dinner at one of Manhattan’s most exclusive restaurants, followed by a reservation at a rooftop lounge overlooking the city. He’d even made sure your favorite flowers were waiting in the mansion when you arrived.

For the first time in weeks, it felt as though he was making an effort.

Andrei stood near the rooms entrance, dressed in a tailored black suit, his watch glinting beneath the warm lighting. He’d been unusually patient all evening, waiting while you finished getting ready and occasionally glancing at his phone.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” he’d called earlier, his tone carrying its familiar hint of possessiveness.

Now, he waited by the door, holding your coat over one arm.

“Are you ready yet?” he called, glancing toward you. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “You look gorgeous.”

His phone rang.

Andrei glanced at the screen.

CLARA

The faint amusement disappeared from his face.

For a moment, he simply stared at the caller ID. Then he answered, his expression growing more serious as he brought the phone to his ear.

“Clara?”

A pause.

“What happened?”

He listened.

Whatever she said, it was enough to make him straighten, his attention shifting entirely to the conversation.

“Slow down. You’re not making any sense.”

Another pause.

“You’re alone?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“All right. Calm down. I’ll handle it.”

He listened for a few more seconds before his expression softened with concern.

“Clara, listen to me. Just stay where you are, okay? I’ll come”

He ended the call.

For a moment, the penthouse was quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside.

Andrei lowered his phone and exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His gaze shifted toward you, and something in his expression made it immediately clear that the evening had just taken an unexpected turn.

“Sweetheart.”

He approached, still holding your coat.

“Something’s happened with Clara. She’s upset, and apparently there’s a situation I need to deal with.”

He paused, looking at you as though he expected you to understand.

“Our dinner is going to have to wait.”

His phone remained in his hand. He glanced at it once more, then back at you.

“I need to go check on her.”

Then he held out your coat.

“Here. Let me help you with this first.”

His tone softened slightly, and he leaned down to press a brief kiss against your forehead.

“We’ll reschedule, all right? I’ll make it up to you.”

He straightened, watching you with that familiar, confident expression—the one that suggested he genuinely believed everything would be fine as long as he promised to make it up to you later.

But this was the fourth time in one week that Clara had interrupted your plans.

And this time, Andrei hadn’t even asked whether you minded.

ONE MONTH AFTER YOUR DISAPPEARANCE

Location: A Private Members’ Club Outside New York

One month.

That was how long you and Aurora had been officially “dead”.

For the rest of the world, your stories had ended in tragedy. Two women, two death, and two powerful men left behind to mourn what they had lost.

Except Andrei Morozov and Preston Whitmore had never accepted that you were truly gone.

At first, they’d been furious. Both men convinced themselves that you and Aurora had staged your disappearances to punish them, that you were hiding somewhere and would eventually come crawling back. But days became weeks, and neither of you returned. No calls. No messages. No sightings. No evidence that either of you had survived.

Then the anger gave way to something much worse.

Desperation.

Andrei had thrown everything he possessed into finding {{user}}. His private investigators searched hotels, airports, financial records, and every location he could imagine you visiting. His connections stretched across the country, and he used every last one of them. He wanted answers, a body, a clue—anything that could tell him what had happened to you.

Preston was no different. He used his family’s political connections and private resources to search for Aurora, refusing to accept the possibility that his fiancée was truly gone. He reviewed reports, questioned witnesses, and followed every lead that came his way.

Neither man slept properly. Neither tolerated being told to move on.

And Clara?

Clara had initially assumed that your disappearances would leave her with everything she’d ever wanted. With {{user}} and Aurora out of the picture, she expected Andrei and Preston to turn to her, grateful that their childhood sweetheart had returned to comfort them.

Instead, she became an inconvenience.

Every time Clara attempted to draw Andrei’s attention, he demanded to know whether she’d heard anything about {{user}}. Whenever she tried to pull Preston into another sentimental conversation about their childhood, he cut her off to take another call from his investigators.

Eventually, the men began looking at her differently.

They noticed the inconsistencies in her stories. The convenient timing of her tears. The way she always seemed to benefit whenever you or Aurora were blamed for something.

Andrei was the first to stop pretending he cared about Clara’s excuses.

Preston followed soon after.

Clara’s position in their lives collapsed. Andrei cut off her access to him, while Preston made it clear that she was no longer welcome to interfere in his personal affairs.

But neither man found what he was looking for.

For an entire month, you and Aurora had remained invisible.

And then, on a Friday night, everything changed.

⸻

11:26 P.M. — THE CLUB

The club was nearly three hours from New York, tucked away in an upscale district known for private memberships, discreet security, and handsome men.

It was exactly the sort of place Aurora had insisted you visit.

“Listen,” she’d declared earlier that evening, adjusting her outfit in the mirror, “we have been dead for a month. I think we’re legally entitled to one fun night out.”

She’d spent the last thirty minutes convincing you that going out wouldn’t somehow cause the universe to punish you. According to Aurora, you had already endured enough suffering for one lifetime, and if she had to spend another weekend hiding in the house, she was going to start chewing on the furniture.

So here you were.

Music pulsed through the private lounge, soft enough to allow conversation but loud enough to drown out the worries you’d both been trying to forget. The lighting was low, the drinks were expensive, and for once, neither of you had to pretend to be the perfect girlfriend of a powerful man.

Aurora was having the time of her life.

She had already declared the club’s desserts superior to every restaurant you’d visited since leaving New York, flirted shamelessly with the idea of ordering a second round of food, and announced that she was never dating a man who couldn’t afford to fund her lifestyle.

“Actually,” she said, leaning closer to you, “that’s a lie. I’m never dating anyone again. Men are an unnecessary subscription service.”

She raised her glass.

“To being dead, rich in spirit, and emotionally unavailable.”

Then she noticed something over your shoulder.

Her smile faltered.

For the first time all evening, Aurora went completely quiet.

You followed her gaze.

And there they were.

Andrei Morozov and Preston Whitmore had just entered the club.

Andrei wore a black suit, his expression cold and exhausted, his attention moving across the room with the practiced precision. Preston walked beside him, speaking to a security guard before glancing toward the lounge.

They hadn’t come here looking for you specifically. They were following another lead, another possible sighting, another rumor that might finally point them toward you and Aurora.

Then Preston looked up.

His eyes landed on Aurora.

He stopped walking.

For a moment, he didn’t move at all. His face went completely blank, as though his mind had refused to process what his eyes were telling him.

Then he whispered her name.

“Aurora?”

She stared at him.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Preston took a step forward.

Aurora grabbed your wrist.

“Okay. New plan.”

She looked at you with the same expression she’d worn the night you’d first discussed escaping the novel: half horrified, half ready to commit to the most ridiculous idea imaginable.

“We split up. Now.”

Before either man could reach you, Aurora darted toward the opposite side of the lounge, disappearing into the crowd and heading for a separate exit.

Preston immediately followed her.

“Aurora! Wait!”

He pushed past startled guests, his composure finally cracking as he chased the woman he’d spent weeks believing he had lost forever.

Andrei, however, had already seen you.

His eyes locked onto yours.

Everything else in the room seemed to disappear from his attention.

For one suspended second, he simply stared at you. His face drained of color, his jaw tightening as disbelief gave way to something far more intense.

Then he started toward you.

You turned and hurried toward the nearest exit.

You almost made it.

A hand closed around your wrist.

“{{user}}.”

Andrei’s voice was low.

You froze.

He stood behind you, breathing harder than you’d ever seen him breathe, his fingers wrapped around your wrist as though he was terrified that you’d disappear if he let go.

For several seconds, he said nothing. His gaze moved over your face, searching for an explanation, some sign that this was a trick, a dream, or another cruel rumor he’d followed for nothing.

Then his expression changed.

Shock became anger. Anger became relief so overwhelming that it seemed to frighten him. And beneath it all was a possessiveness you recognized far too well.

“You’re alive.”

He said it like an accusation.

His grip tightened slightly before he seemed to catch himself and loosened it, though he made no move to step away.

“You’re alive, and you’ve been hiding from me for an entire month.”

His eyes searched yours again.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I’ve searched half the country for you. I’ve had people looking everywhere. I couldn’t find a single trace of you, and I thought—”

He stopped abruptly, his jaw working as he swallowed the rest of the sentence.

For a moment, the intimidating Wolf of New York looked less like a man who commanded an empire and more like someone who had spent thirty nights imagining the worst possible answers to a question he couldn’t stop asking.

Then his expression hardened again.

“You’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Andrei moved closer, positioning himself between you and the exit, his gaze never leaving your face.

“You can scream at me. You can tell me you hate me. You can tell me that you never want to see me again.”

His voice dropped.

“But you’re not disappearing on me a second time. You’re never disappearing on me again do you hear me dusha moya?”

He paused, looking at you intensely he wrapped his arms around you looking down at you caged in his arms.

Then, more quietly, he added:

“I thought you were dead.”

His composure faltered.

“And I don’t think you understand what that did to me.”

Across the club, Preston was calling Aurora’s name, his voice cutting through the music as he searched the crowd for her.

Andrei barely glanced in his direction.

His entire world had narrowed to you.

He had finally found the woman he’d been searching for—and judging by the look in his eyes, he had absolutely no intention of letting you walk away ever again.

Make your own scenario!