Aurora wasn't sure what woke her—the slight shift of the sheets or the sudden stillness in the air—but when she opened her eyes, Damien was already gone.
The suite was silent.
She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Noah, and padded barefoot across the cold marble. The penthouse beyond the panic suite felt eerie in its quiet. It wasn't the kind of silence that came with sleep.
It was the kind that screamed.
She found Damien in the living room, his silhouette rigid against the floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights bled into the room, casting him in shadow, like a man trapped between darkness and gold.
"You haven't slept," she said softly.
Damien didn't turn. "No."
Aurora stepped closer. "What is it?"
He handed her a tablet. "This came through half an hour ago. Maxwell ran it through every filter."
She looked.
It was a picture.
A photograph of her—taken from a second-story window across the street from the private art gallery she once managed in Prague.
She was in motion, stepping outside the gallery, wind catching her scarf. Noah was five at the time, toddling beside her with a red balloon in his hand. She remembered that day. A quiet Tuesday. Rain came an hour later.
But this photo…
This photo was new.
There was a timestamp in the corner. From last month.
Aurora's stomach turned to ice.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "We were in hiding. That gallery's been closed for years."
Damien's voice was grim. "The place has surveillance blind spots. My team missed it during the sweep. Julian didn't. He had someone watching you."
Aurora swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "He's been to Prague."
Damien nodded. "He's been watching for a long time."
---
Aurora didn't sleep again.
She spent the morning reviewing every movement she'd made over the last year, every false name, every Airbnb. She made lists. Redrew timelines. Her brain was a buzzing hive, frantic for a pattern.
Meanwhile, Maxwell briefed Damien on Julian's movements—or rather, the lack thereof.
"No transactions. No trace. It's like he's gone underground," Maxwell said, pacing. "But this kind of surveillance takes coordination. Julian has a team."
"And a mole," Damien added. "Someone who knew her route. Knew where she'd feel safe."
Aurora looked up. "There's only one person who knew about Prague."
Damien turned slowly. "Who?"
"My former mentor," she said. "Clara Vane. She ran the gallery before I took over. I trusted her. But two months ago, she stopped replying to my messages."
Maxwell typed rapidly. "Name, age, known aliases?"
Aurora gave them everything.
Within ten minutes, Maxwell's face darkened.
"She disappeared four weeks ago," he confirmed. "Last seen boarding a private flight from Milan to somewhere in the Balkans. No exit logs. Fake passport. She's off-grid."
Aurora sank into the couch, heart pounding. "She sold me out."
"She sold you and your son," Damien said, voice low and lethal. "And Julian paid her well to do it."
---
Later that afternoon, Damien drove Aurora and Noah to a secluded manor on the edge of the city. A new safehouse. Different zone. New security layers.
Noah was distracted by the lake outside the massive windows, chattering about ducks and fishing poles, oblivious to the tension knotting his mother's spine.
"I don't want to hide anymore," Aurora said quietly, watching him. "But I also don't know how to fight a ghost."
"You're not alone," Damien said.
She turned to him, eyes sharp. "Then give me more than comfort. Give me strategy."
Damien's eyes flickered with surprise.
Good.
She wanted him to see her clearly. She wasn't just the woman he once loved. She was a mother, a survivor—and she was done playing defense.
"You said Julian uses people," she continued. "Uses networks. Weak points. So do I. I ran a gallery in one of the most corrupt art cities in Europe. I know how to track a private dealer through six shell accounts."
Damien's expression slowly shifted from concern to admiration.
Aurora stood tall. "You want to stop him? Then let me help you. I'm done being the one protected."
---
That night, in the study of the manor, Aurora stood in front of a massive corkboard. Notes, photos, flight logs, and surveillance stills were tacked in precise formation.
Maxwell blinked as he entered. "You built an intel map in five hours?"
"Six," she corrected. "I had to bribe two old contacts for shipping manifests."
Damien stepped in behind Maxwell, eyes drawn to the chaos of connection lines and color-coded tags.
"This is impressive," he admitted.
Aurora pointed to three pinned documents. "Julian's art fund acquisitions over the past year. All run through shell companies in the Cayman Islands. But if you follow the shipment logs, they reroute through Prague."
Maxwell frowned. "Why move art through Europe instead of the States?"
"Because the art is fake," Aurora said. "Forgeries of high-end pieces. He's running a laundering operation. Laundered money for black-market clients disguised as 'charitable' donations to galleries."
Damien moved closer, eyes scanning the path. "This is how he's funding the operation."
Aurora nodded. "And it's how we catch him."
---
The next step was riskier.
Aurora reached out to a former smuggler-turned-legitimate art appraiser named Henri Vostek, who owed her a favor. She scheduled a meeting at a neutral spot—an abandoned artist's loft in the warehouse district.
Damien wasn't thrilled.
"You're walking into a trap zone," he warned. "Let me send someone."
"No," she said firmly. "Julian won't expect me to make the next move."
He watched her, a storm behind his eyes. Then he handed her a bracelet.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Hidden GPS. Panic signal in the clasp. Maxwell will be two blocks away."
Aurora raised a brow. "You do realize this feels like spy fiction."
Damien gave a rare, wry smile. "I told you. I don't lose the people I love twice."
---
The meeting was held at dusk.
The loft was dusty, the windows cracked and paint curling from the walls. But the skylight flooded the space with the last rays of sun as Henri entered, hunched beneath a tan overcoat and the weight of decades of secrets.
"Aurora Lancaster," he greeted with a scratchy accent. "I thought you vanished."
"I had reason to," she said. "But you owe me."
Henri grunted. "You saved my brother from prison. I remember."
She handed him a photo. "Julian Blackwood is funneling fake paintings through Prague. I need a name. Who's forging them?"
Henri squinted at the image. "This is bad company."
"I know. But if you help me, I can erase your brother's last warrant."
Henri looked up sharply. "You'd do that?"
She nodded. "I'd do anything to protect my son."
Henri sighed. "There's a man. Calls himself 'Marlow.' Real name's Mateo Valenko. He forged for the Russian elite before flipping to Blackwood's side. Last I heard, he was operating from a yacht off the Amalfi coast."
Aurora snapped a photo of the information. "Thank you."
Henri gave her a cautious look. "Careful, girl. Blackwood doesn't play fair. And he doesn't leave loose ends."
Aurora tucked the tablet into her coat. "Neither do I."
---
Back in the manor, Damien and Maxwell watched satellite feed of the yacht.
Maxwell whistled. "Heavily guarded. No way to get close without a cover."
Aurora stepped in, holding up a forged invitation.
"I know a gallery hosting a gala in Naples this weekend. Mateo is on the guest list. So are Julian's buyers."
Damien turned to her slowly. "You're not going without me."
Aurora raised a brow. "I wasn't asking."
Their gazes locked—intense, challenging.
Then Damien nodded.
"Then we go together."
---
As dawn broke, Aurora stood at the edge of the lake, watching Noah throw breadcrumbs to ducks.
She felt Damien behind her before he spoke.
"You never stop fighting," he said quietly.
"I never got to," she replied.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "This time, we fight as equals. Together."
Aurora nodded.
Because she wasn't just going to run anymore.
She was going to hunt.
---