CHAPTER ONE:AUREILA BEGINNING
817 Words
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The bell above the door let out a tired jingle, half-hearted like everything else that belonged to Rain’s Diner—a greasy little hole-in-the-wall at the corner of 39th and misery.
Aurelia Monroe didn’t flinch at the sound anymore. After six months working the night shift, the bell had become just another ghost in the background.
She moved between the booths like muscle memory, her steps light, body fluid, avoiding the squeaky floorboards without thinking. Her uniform was a pale blue dress two sizes too big, cinched at the waist by a fraying apron. Her hair—long and chestnut—was tied in a braid that always came undone by the end of her shift. She was pale, almost too pale, with lips that always looked a little bitten and eyes too large for her delicate face.
Aurelia looked like something out of a storybook—pretty, soft, and utterly out of place in a world with rusted booths and flickering neon signs. But no one paid her much attention. And that’s the way she liked it.
She didn’t need eyes on her. Not anymore.
“Table four’s asking for coffee. Again,” muttered Mira, her shift manager, while wiping down a tray with a cigarette tucked between her teeth.
Aurelia nodded and moved toward the table.
Three truckers. Loud. Greasy fingers. Eyes like they hadn’t seen a woman in weeks.
She poured the coffee without speaking, keeping her gaze low. One of them let out a low whistle.
“You always this quiet, sweetheart?” he asked, the words thick with sleep and lust.
Aurelia didn’t answer. She finished pouring, placed the pot back on the warmer, and walked away without a glance. She could feel his eyes on her—on her hips, her legs, her silence.
She was used to it.
She had become very good at being invisible, even when people looked directly at her.
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After her shift, she changed in the tiny backroom, pulling on a secondhand sweater and black jeans with a hole in the knee. It was nearly 4 a.m. when she stepped out into the cold. The street was quiet, slick with rain. A soft mist clung to the sidewalk, and the few streetlights that worked flickered like dying candles.
Aurelia walked home alone.
It was a twenty-minute walk to her apartment building—a crumbling box of gray stone and rusted metal tucked between an abandoned laundromat and a pawnshop. The kind of place where rent was cheap and screams didn’t travel.
She climbed four flights of stairs in silence and unlocked the door to unit 4B. The apartment was barely more than a studio. One mattress on the floor. One cracked mirror. One suitcase at the foot of the bed.
She didn’t unpack.
She never stayed long enough to need to.
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The city was quiet, but Aurelia never slept well.
She took a long shower and sat by the window in a hoodie three sizes too big, sipping tea she didn’t like. The clock ticked to 5:17 a.m.
That’s when the dreams usually came.
She was eight.
The man smelled like copper and candle wax.
He told her she was “chosen.”
He whispered in Latin and drew sigils on her skin.
She screamed for days. No one came.
They found her in an abandoned chapel five days after she’d gone missing. Her wrists were bruised from ropes. Her body was intact. But something had broken deep inside her—and it never healed.
Her father hadn’t come to the hospital. Her stepmother didn’t speak of it. The tabloids had a field day with the headlines:
> “Tycoon’s Daughter Found After Five-Day Disappearance—No Charges Filed.”
> “Gregory Monroe Declines Public Statement.”
> “Mystery Deepens: Child Claims She Was ‘Sacrificed.’”
No one believed her.
The man was never found.
Her father sent her away to boarding school in Europe within the month.
The Monroe name remained clean.
Aurelia learned silence was safer than truth.
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At noon, her phone rang.
She stared at it like it had grown teeth.
No one called her. Not anymore.
The screen flashed a name she hadn’t seen in three years.
Gregory Monroe.
Her father.
Her thumb hovered. Then, against her better judgment, she answered.
“Aurelia,” he said. Not hi. Not how are you. Just her name like a command.
“What do you want?” Her voice was flat.
“I need you to come home.”
A pause.
“I’m not your daughter anymore.”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about legacy.”
That made her laugh. “Still using people like chess pieces, I see.”
“You’ll be at the manor tomorrow evening. 6 p.m. Wear something formal.”
He hung up.
No explanation. No apology. Just expectation.
Just like always.
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- Writer
