The first flight out of Orlando left at 6:47 AM.
Aurora was on it.
She'd packed in the dark—quick, efficient, no wasted movement. Left the hotel before sunrise. Didn't tell anyone. Didn't explain.
Just left.
The breakfast session started at eight. The one she'd sworn she'd crash. The one she'd been so adamant about attending that Liam had looked half-impressed, half-concerned by her determination.
But that was before.
Before one word during a dance had ripped fifteen years of careful control to shreds.
Now, Aurora sat in seat 4A, staring out the window as Orlando disappeared beneath the clouds, and felt nothing but the cold, settled certainty that she'd made the right choice.
Staying would have been dangerous. Would have required her to see him again. Talk to him. Pretend the dance hadn't happened. Pretend his hand at her waist hadn't made her feel things she had no right to feel.
Pretend that word hadn't destroyed her.
And she couldn't. Not yet. Not until the mask was fully back in place.
The flight attendant offered coffee. Aurora declined. Closed her eyes. Tried to sleep.
She couldn't.
Liar.
The word was still there. Still echoing.
By the time the plane touched down at JFK, Aurora had made three decisions:
One: She was accelerating the revenge plan. No more delays. No more strategic patience.
Two: She would not see Liam Ashford in person again until she was ready to destroy him.
Three: She would not break down again. Ever.
Isabella Gomez had been weak. Had cried. Had begged for help.
Aurora Castillo didn't do any of those things.
***
Her penthouse was exactly as she'd left it. Clean. Minimalist. Cold in the way expensive places always were—all glass and steel and nothing that felt like home.
Aurora dropped her bag by the door. Kicked off her shoes. Headed straight for the shower.
Hot water. Steam. The kind of heat that burned but felt necessary.
She stood under the spray for twenty minutes. Maybe longer. Let the water wash away Orlando. The summit. The dance. The jasmine. His thumb tracing circles on her spine. The way she'd almost—
No.
She scrubbed harder.
When she finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel with her hair dripping, she felt almost human again.
Almost.
Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.
Incoming call: L. Ashford
Aurora stared at it. Watched it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
Didn't answer.
The call went to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, a text:
Liam: Hey. Are you okay? I didn't see you at the breakfast session. Wanted to make sure everything's alright.
Aurora set the phone face-down. Walked to her bedroom. Changed into a robe—silk, expensive, the kind of thing that felt like a second skin, and cost just as much.
The phone buzzed again.
Liam: I know you weren't officially invited, but I saved you a seat anyway. Just in case.
She ignored it.
Moved to the kitchen. Made tea she wouldn't drink. Stood by the window and stared out at Manhattan.
The city looked different from up here. Smaller. More manageable. Like she could reach down and rearrange the buildings with her bare hands.
Her phone buzzed a third time.
Liam: If I said something wrong last night, I'm sorry. Let me know you're okay?
Aurora picked up the phone. Stared at the messages. At his name on her screen.
If I said something wrong.
He didn't even know. Didn't remember. Didn't have a clue that one careless word had sent her spiraling back fifteen years.
Because to him, it had been nothing. A joke. Teasing banter during a dance.
To her, it had been everything.
Her phone buzzed again. Not a text this time.
Incoming call: Ricky
Aurora stared at the screen. Let it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
She texted back: I'm fine. Will explain tomorrow.
Another lie.
Almost immediately, three dots appeared. Ricky typing.
Ricky: You left Orlando without telling me. That's not fine.
Ricky: What happened?
Aurora's finger hovered over the keyboard. She could respond. Could tell him about the dance, the word, the breakdown in the bathroom. Could let him in.
But she didn't trust herself yet. Didn't trust that she could type the right words without something cracking open again.
Aurora: Nothing happened. Just needed to leave early. We'll talk Monday.
Ricky: Rora...
Aurora: Monday. I promise.
The three dots appeared again. Disappeared. Appeared.
Ricky: Okay. But I'm holding you to that.
Aurora set the phone down. Tried to convince herself it was strategic. Not avoidance. Not fear.
Just strategy.
***
Meanwhile, in Orlando, Liam stood in the hotel lobby and tried to figure out what he'd done wrong.
Aurora hadn't shown up to the breakfast session.
He'd checked. Multiple times. Scanned the room for that sharp, confident presence. He'd even saved her a seat—front table, next to his—just in case she made good on her threat to crash it.
Nothing.
He'd texted. Called. No response.
His assistant appeared at his elbow. "Mr. Ashford? The panel starts in fifteen minutes."
"Right." Liam forced himself to focus. "I'll be there."
But he wasn't really there. Not mentally.
He went through the motions. Answered questions about ethical AI development. The audience applauded.
Liam barely heard any of it.
His phone stayed in his pocket. Silent.
She was ignoring him.
The question was why.
By afternoon, Liam had replayed the dance a dozen times.
The teasing. The closeness. The way she'd felt in his arms—warm, present, her fingers finding his nape like they belonged there.
The way something had been building between them before it shattered.
He'd called her a liar. Just one word. Playful. Nothing.
But she'd pulled away like he'd struck her.
Maybe he'd pushed too hard. Maybe she'd felt that pull between them and it had scared her.
Or maybe—worse thought—she genuinely didn't want to talk to him. Didn't see him as anything more than competition.
That thought sat heavier than it should have.
The closing keynote started at four. Liam sat in the back row, checked his phone every few minutes, and felt pathetic doing it.
No new messages.
When it finally ended, he skipped the closing reception. Made excuses to his board about calls and emails.
Really, he just wanted to be alone.
***
Back in his hotel room, Liam sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his phone.
Three unanswered messages. One missed call.
He typed out a fourth message. Deleted it. Typed again.
Liam: I'm heading back to New York tomorrow. Coffee when I get back? No business talk. Just coffee.
Sent it before he could overthink it.
Watched the screen. Waited for the three dots that meant she was typing.
Nothing.
Liam set the phone down. Ran his hands through his hair.
"What did I do?" he whispered to the empty room.
And the uncomfortable realization settled in: Aurora Castillo had gotten under his skin.
Somewhere between the gala and the coffee shop, between the panel debate and that dance, he'd started caring what she thought of him.
Started wanting her to see him as more than competition. More than just the heir to a legacy he was trying to escape.
Started wanting her to look at him the way she had for just a moment during the dance—before something shifted. Before he'd ruined it.
Started wanting her.
This was insane.
She was his rival. His competitor. Someone who'd made it clear she wanted to beat him.
But the way she'd looked at him sometimes—like she saw through every wall. Like she knew something he didn't. Like she hated him for reasons that went deeper than business.
And the way she'd felt in his arms. The way her body had curved into his. The way her fingers had slid into his hair.
The way he'd wanted to pull her closer and never let go.
Liam's phone stayed silent.
He stared out at Orlando's city lights and tried to convince himself it didn't matter.
That her silence didn't bother him.
That he wasn't lonely.
But he was.
And somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, Aurora Castillo had stopped being just a competitor.
She'd become something he couldn't afford to want.
But wanted anyway.