Chapter 2: Pay Me for the Performance
2250 Words
Aurora Winslow left Red Moon House without looking back.
Behind her, the private room stayed silent for perhaps three whole seconds.
Then someone forced a laugh.
“She’s joking, right?”
“Of course she is. Come on. Aurora loves Ethan too much to walk away.”
“Exactly. Give her two days. Maybe three if she wants to make a scene.”
Ethan stood beside the table, his hand still braced against the polished wood. The crushed marriage appointment slip lay near his coffee cup like a stain.
His face was cold.
“Shut up.”
The room fell quiet again.
Celeste sat beside him, pale and wide-eyed, her fingers curled around her napkin as if she were the one who had been humiliated.
“Ethan,” she said softly, “don’t be angry. Aurora must have misunderstood. I can explain it to her. I can apologize if that makes her feel better.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But she looked so upset.”
Celeste lowered her eyes, her voice trembling just enough to make the men at the table exchange sympathetic looks.
“I only came back yesterday. I didn’t want to cause trouble between you two.”
Ethan’s anger eased almost instantly.
Aurora had seen him do that countless times.
No matter how cold he was to the rest of the world, Celeste always knew which thread to pull.
Celeste reached over and touched his wrist. “Don’t be mad because of me.”
Ethan looked down at her hand.
His expression softened.
“I’m not mad at you.” His voice dropped. “I would never be mad at you because of someone else.”
Celeste smiled faintly, as if relieved.
The others began to speak again, carefully this time.
“See? Aurora’s just jealous.”
“Women say things when they’re angry.”
“She’ll come around. She always does.”
Ethan did not answer.
He picked up the appointment slip Aurora had thrown down. The paper had been bent at the corner, the number still visible.
For some reason, the way she had looked at him before she left remained in his mind.
She had not cried, begged, or even looked furious. She had only looked cold, an expression so strange to him that it felt completely unfamiliar.
He crumpled the slip in his fist and tossed it aside.
It was just a tantrum.
He had said there was no future Mrs. Sterling to reassure Celeste and impress the room. He had never imagined Aurora would hear him—or take the words literally.
Aurora had loved him for five years. She had waited for him through silence, distance, indifference, and every return of Celeste’s name.
A woman like that did not stop loving someone in one morning.
She would calm down.
She always did.
Aurora went straight to the townhouse.
It was the house Ethan’s grandfather had prepared for their marriage, a three-story brick townhouse in one of Northbridge’s quietest old-money neighborhoods. The street was lined with plane trees and black iron gates. Everything about it was tasteful, expensive, and cold.
The housekeeper opened the door and blinked in surprise.
“Future Mrs. Sterling? You’re back already?”
Aurora paused at the title.
Future Mrs. Sterling.
The household staff had started using the title after the engagement, although no marriage license had ever been signed.
This morning, the words might have made her heart flutter.
Now they felt like someone else’s clothes thrown over her shoulders.
“Just here to pick up a few things,” Aurora said.
The housekeeper looked past her, confused. “Mr. Sterling isn’t with you?”
“No.”
Aurora did not explain.
There was no point.
She went upstairs with her suitcase in one hand and the cream-colored folder in the other. The bedroom that had been prepared as their future master suite was still untouched, perfectly staged like a showroom. White bedding. Fresh flowers. A framed engagement photo on the wall where Ethan stood beside her, unsmiling, while she had tried so hard to look happy enough for both of them.
Aurora did not look at it for long.
Most of her things were in the guest room.
That alone should have told her everything.
She and Ethan were engaged. The wedding had been planned. Their families had already started calling her his wife.
But in this house, she had never truly moved in.
Her clothes took up half a wardrobe. A few pairs of shoes. Two work suits. Some toiletries. A silk scarf she had left on a chair. A stack of legal files in her tote.
One suitcase was enough.
Aurora folded her clothes neatly, placed the files on top, and zipped the suitcase closed.
On her way downstairs, she passed Ethan’s study.
The door was half-open.
His tablet lay on the desk.
Aurora stopped.
A memory rose with painful clarity.
One rainy evening months ago, she had come here after work, exhausted, and had picked up the tablet to stream a show while waiting for Ethan. He had walked in, seen it in her hands, and his face had turned dark.
He had not shouted.
Ethan rarely shouted.
He had simply taken it from her and said, “Don’t touch my private things.”
She had apologized.
Of course she had.
She had told herself everyone had boundaries. She had told herself not to overthink it.
But this morning, Celeste had been holding Ethan’s phone at breakfast.
Turning it in her hand.
Casual. Familiar. Entitled.
Aurora looked at the tablet.
Then she walked into the study.
The screen lit beneath her finger.
Password required.
She tried Ethan’s birthday first.
Wrong.
She tried her own birthday.
Wrong again.
Aurora stared at the screen for a moment, then gave a quiet laugh.
She already knew.
There were things a woman remembered even when she wished she did not.
Ethan had once mentioned Celeste’s birthday at dinner, explaining that she had always loved the moon because she was born on a night with a full one. His voice had been so gentle then, so unlike the way he spoke to Aurora about dates and appointments and ceremonies.
Aurora entered Celeste’s birthday.
The tablet unlocked.
The study felt unnaturally quiet.
The home screen was sparse, but the photo library sat in the corner.
Aurora tapped it.
Several ordinary folders appeared—work events, family trips, and travel records—and one album titled Celeste.
The first photo showed Celeste alone.
The second showed Celeste blowing out candles.
The third showed Ethan and Celeste by a lake, Celeste leaning against his arm as if she belonged there.
Aurora kept scrolling.
Celeste in a white dress.
Celeste on a private jet, wrapped in Ethan’s coat.
Celeste laughing beneath fireworks.
Celeste holding Ethan’s phone in front of a mirror while Ethan stood behind her, smiling.
Aurora stopped scrolling.
Ethan had told her he hated photos.
He had avoided every selfie she tried to take. At their engagement shoot, he had been stiff and impatient, counting the minutes until it ended. When Aurora asked why he looked so uncomfortable, he said he simply did not like being photographed.
The album contained thousands of images.
Almost every one centered on Celeste.
A few formal family photographs included Aurora at the edge. None recorded a private moment between her and Ethan.
Aurora set the tablet down.
Her fingers went cold.
The pain settled instead of surging—heavy, clean, and final.
He was not a man who disliked photographs. He was a man who had never wanted to make memories with her.
Aurora closed the gallery, locked the screen, and placed the tablet exactly where she had found it.
Then she walked away.
Downstairs, the housekeeper hurried forward when she saw the suitcase.
“Future Mrs. Sterling, are you traveling again?”
Aurora’s hand tightened briefly on the handle.
“Yes,” she said after a second. “Something like that.”
The housekeeper glanced toward the master suite. “Should I tell Mr. Sterling when he comes back?”
Aurora looked around the townhouse one last time.
The flowers. The staged furniture. The walls waiting for a marriage that would never happen.
“No need.”
She walked out.
Ethan returned the next afternoon.
He had not gone home the night before. Celeste had felt dizzy after breakfast, and he had taken her back to the hotel, then stayed until she fell asleep.
By the time he reached the townhouse, his mood had already soured.
Aurora had not sent him a single message.
Not one.
Usually, after they argued, she would text first. Even if the fault was his, she would soften first. She would ask if he had eaten. Ask if he was busy. Ask when he was coming home.
This time, nothing.
Ethan loosened his tie as he stepped inside.
The housekeeper came forward. “Mr. Sterling.”
“Did Aurora come back yesterday?”
The housekeeper hesitated. “She did. She left with a suitcase.”
“A suitcase?”
“She said she was traveling.”
Ethan gave a cold laugh.
Traveling.
Running away, more like.
She had some nerve this time.
“Did she say when she’d come back?”
“No.”
Ethan frowned.
He walked upstairs, glanced into the guest room, and saw the wardrobe half-empty. His expression grew darker, but not worried.
Annoyed.
Aurora had taken this too far.
They were engaged. The wedding was already in motion. His grandfather had approved her years ago. Their families were tied together. She knew how important the Sterling name was. She knew how much his grandfather liked her.
Where could she go?
How long could she sulk?
He entered the study and had just sat down when his phone rang.
Grandfather.
Ethan straightened slightly before answering.
“Grandpa.”
George Sterling’s voice was old but firm. “Did you and Aurora get the license?”
Ethan paused.
His gaze flicked toward the crumpled appointment slip in the trash.
“Not yet,” he said. “Something came up that day. We’ll go after your birthday banquet.”
There was a silence on the other end.
“You forgot to tell me?”
“It was nothing serious.”
“Getting married is serious.”
Ethan rubbed his brow. “I know.”
George snorted. “Do you? I heard Celeste is back.”
Ethan’s eyes sharpened. “Who told you?”
“That’s not the point. If she’s back, bring her home properly. She was raised by the Sterling family. It doesn’t look good for her to stay outside.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I hope you handle your marriage first,” George said. “Aurora is a good girl. Don’t make her wait too long.”
Ethan lowered his eyes. “I said I know.”
After the call ended, he stared at his phone for a long moment.
Then he opened his chat with Aurora.
Their last conversation was still the message she had sent him before the marriage-license appointment.
I just got to the marriage-license office. Our appointment is in thirty minutes.
Ethan’s thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Then he typed.
Grandpa’s birthday banquet is tomorrow. Are you back from your so-called trip?
An hour passed.
Then Aurora replied with a single question mark.
Ethan’s face darkened.
He typed harder.
Aurora, there is a limit to throwing a tantrum. You know how important Grandpa’s banquet is. Don’t make him worry because you’re upset with me.
This time, the reply came faster.
Mr. Sterling, we’ve already broken up. I won’t attend tomorrow. You can bring whoever you want.
Mr. Sterling.
Ethan stared at the words.
A humorless laugh escaped him.
So that was how she wanted to play it.
He replied immediately.
Who agreed to a breakup? I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. You know how well Grandpa treats you. If you have any conscience, you won’t ruin his birthday.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then her message came through.
I can attend.
Before Ethan could relax, another message appeared.
But since this is now a performance, please pay my appearance fee first.
A twenty-five-thousand-dollar payment request followed.
Ethan’s expression froze.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he laughed under his breath, though there was no amusement in it.
Appearance fee.
Aurora Winslow was really getting bold.
He could almost see her face as she sent it—cold, composed, pretending she did not care.
Fine.
If money was what she wanted today, he would give it to her. It was easier than wasting another hour arguing over her mood.
Ethan opened his private-banking app and approved the transfer.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
The confirmation appeared almost instantly.
Aurora accepted it in less than ten seconds.
Then she sent one final message.
Payment received. Pleasure doing business.
Ethan stared at the screen.
For the first time since she had thrown the appointment slip on the breakfast table, the faint discomfort in his chest returned.
Aurora had always been gentle with him.
Careful.
Soft around the edges.
The woman on the other side of the phone no longer sounded like the Aurora he knew.
His fingers tightened around the device.
But only for a moment.
Then Ethan tossed the phone onto the desk.
She would come tomorrow.
That was enough.
As long as she came, it meant she had not really left.
- Writer
