The taxi ride to the apartment took nearly forty minutes.
Aurora leaned against the window, one hand pressed lightly to the bandage on her forehead. The city moved past in streaks of glass and traffic, luxury storefronts giving way to quieter residential streets, then to a neighborhood that was clean, ordinary, and blessedly anonymous.
Her apartment building was not grand.
It had no iron gates, no staff at the door, no long driveway lined with ornamental trees. It was a mid-rise building with a small lobby, potted plants near the mailboxes, and an elevator that made a tired sound when the doors opened.
Aurora had never loved any place more.
The apartment had belonged to her for three years.
A gift from her late grandmother on the Bennett side.
Not Eleanor. Not Richard. Not Tristan.
