Aurora
1381 Words
RORY POV
The hotel room feels like a trap.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my reflection in the dark TV screen. Juliet went all out on the disguise. Heavy makeup, thick black eyeliner, fake lashes, contour sharp enough to carve glass, deep red lipstick. My hair is hidden under a long, straight black wig that falls past my shoulders. I don’t look like the First Daughter. I don’t even look like me.
Which is a very good thing because that’s the point.
Juliet helped set up everything on Discreet last night. We scrolled through offers until we found one that seemed okay, experienced, patient, willing to “teach.” He charged double the usual rate because I admitted I was a complete novice. Virgin. Numb. Whatever you want to call it.
He’s supposed to arrive in twenty minutes.
The clock on the nightstand says 9:40 PM.
Every minute that passes makes my stomach twist tighter. This feels wrong. So wrong. My skin crawls with regret.
I grab my phone, the burner Juliet got me and call her.
She answers on the first ring.
“How’s it going? You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, voice shaking. “I have a bad feeling, Jules. Really bad. I think I should leave.”
“No, no, no,” she says quickly. “Don’t back out now. You’ve come this far. This is for you—to figure it out. Prove you’re not broken. Just breathe. He’s vetted, right? You saw the messages. It’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know—”
“Rory, trust me. One night. If it sucks, you leave. You’re in control.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay. Okay.”
The door lock clicks.
I freeze.
“He’s here,” I whisper into the phone.
“Good luck,” Juliet says softly. “Text me when it’s over. Love you.”
I hang up fast, shove the phone under the pillow.
The door opens slowly.
A man steps in. Tall, average build, wearing a plain jacket. The hallway light behind him makes him a silhouette at first.
He closes the door. Doesn’t turn on the overhead light—just the dim lamp I left on.
The smell hits me immediately.
Alcohol. Strong. Like he drank half a bottle on the way here.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says, voice slurred at the edges.
My throat tightens.
“Hi,” I manage to let out.
He steps closer, looking me over. “Shall we get started?”
I force a laugh. It comes out shaky. “Do I… need to write anything down? For the teaching part?”
He chuckles, low and rough. “No need, sweetheart. Best way to learn is straight to it. s*x teaches everything.”
My stomach drops.
“Wait—that’s not what we agreed,” I say, voice rising. “You said you’d teach me first. About my body. Slowly.”
Something is very wrong. This isn’t what we agreed to on the app. This isn’t what he said would happen.
He waves a hand dismissively, his eyes raking over me with a hunger that makes my skin crawl. “Slow is for amateurs. The best teaching starts with f*****g. You’ll feel it then.”
He looks creepy now, his eyes too bright from the alcohol, his smile is too wide, like a predator who corners his prey. Regret floods me, bitter and overwhelming, making my chest tight and my breaths short. This isn’t what I want. Not like this.
“Uhm…wait, I’ve tried s*x before,” I say, my voice trembling as I back up on the bed. “It doesn’t work. That’s why I’m here. Let’s start with the lessons first. Please.”
His face twists, patience snapping like a thin wire. “If you want a responsive body, you need to comply. Stop wasting my time.”
I swallow hard, the taste of fear metallic on my tongue. “Okay,” I whisper, hating how small I sound. Hating that I agree just to avoid making it worse.
He grins, satisfied. “Good. Lie down on the bed. Flat on your back.”
I obey, slowly lowering myself, my body rigid as a board, every nerve screaming at me to run. The mattress dips under my weight, and I stare at the ceiling, counting the shadows to distract myself from the rising nausea.
He looms over me, his eyes gleaming. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he mutters, hands rough on my thighs, yanking my dress up. “Tight little virgin p***y. Bet it’s sweet. I’ll break you in good.”
The words make bile rise in my throat. Filthy, degrading. This is the worst decision of my life.
I should listen to my gut.
I should blame Juliet for pushing this, for making it sound so easy, so empowering. But mostly, I blame myself for being desperate enough to believe it.
All of a sudden, he bounces onto me. His full weight crashing down like a sack of bricks, his body pinning me to the bed. The reek of alcohol overwhelms up close, sour breath hot on my face, making my eyes water and my stomach heave. I gag, the urge to vomit rising fast.
I can’t breathe.
“Please—” I try to push him off, but he’s too heavy. “Please get off, I changed my mind—”
“Too late for that.”
His hand hits my face. Hard. The pain explodes across my cheek and my ears start ringing.
Tears fill my eyes.
“Stop!” I’m trying to twist away, trying to get free, but I can’t move. “Please stop—”
His hands grab my pants, yanking at them. I hear fabric rip. I’m clawing at him, trying to push him, but nothing works. He’s too strong and I can’t breathe and—
BANG.
The sound is so loud I can’t think. Can’t understand what just happened.
The man on top of me goes completely still.
Then I feel it. Something warm and wet spreading across my chest, my neck, my face.
Blood.
The man’s body falls limp on top of me. Heavy. He’s not moving.
Not breathing.
He’s dead.
The word doesn’t make sense. My brain can’t process it. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t scream. I’m frozen.
It is exactly like before.
Like when I am four.
Wandering into Mom’s study after a nap, expecting her smile, her arms open.
Finding her instead on the floor.
Blood everywhere, dark red pooling under her head, her eyes open but empty.
Dad’s guards bursting in, shouting.
Me frozen in the doorway.
Unable to scream. Unable to move.
I was just staring.
The same terror now—paralyzing, all consuming.
Something moves in the corner of my eye.
The bathroom door creaks open.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up, a shiver racing down my spine like electricity.
That feeling rushes back, but this time it’s intense. Overwhelming.
He’s here.
My stalker.
I manage to shove the dead body off me with a surge of adrenaline, the weight rolling away with a sickening thud. Blood smears across the sheets, across my dress, my skin. I stumble to my feet, my legs wobbling like they might give out any second.
The moment I turn, I am met with those piercing blue eyes.
Staring right at me.
My heart runs laps—pounding so hard it hurts, a frantic rhythm echoing in my ears, making my vision blur at the edges.
He stands there in the doorway.
Tall. Broad.
Hoodie pulled up, casting shadows over his face. Black nose mask covering everything below his eyes. Black gloves on his hands.
Black pants, black boots, every inch of him swallowed in darkness.
Holding a gun with a silencer attached. The barrel still warm, I imagine.
The only thing revealed: those eyes.
Blue. Intense. Unblinking.
For the first time, I am face to face with him.
The man who’s watched me for three years.
Who just killed someone on top of me.
But why?
He tilts his head slightly.
Then—his voice low, rough, calm.
“Run, Aurora.”
- Writer
