Chapter 5 A Dream That Shouldn’t Hurt
Aurora:
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the kind that feels peaceful, the kind that hums in your ears because everything familiar has vanished.
No breath beside me. No heartbeat pressed against my back. Just the faint creak of the hotel’s ventilation and the weight of a world that feels newly, impossibly empty.
For a long moment I lie there, eyes half-open, letting the light find me.
He’s gone.
The thought lands slowly, like an echo trying to find a wall.
The other half of the bed is cool. His side of the pillow still carries the shape of a head that shouldn’t already be a memory. My fingers drift over it anyway, as if proof of him could still be soft.
Then the ache hits, a dull, deep pull somewhere behind my ribs. It’s not sharp like heartbreak is supposed to be; it’s heavier, deeper, like my heart has forgotten the rhythm it was meant to keep. I press a hand over my chest and breathe through it.
Maybe I drank too much. Maybe I dreamed too vividly.
Maybe none of it happened the way I think it did.
But I remember the sound of him, the low rumble of his voice, the quiet apology laced into the way he said my name, and those impossible words that don’t fit in the daylight.
I, Alpha Levi Kingston, reject you, Aurora Anderson, as my chosen mate by the Moon Goddess.
Even in my head, they sound ridiculous.
I let out a shaky laugh, because that’s what rational people do when fantasy bleeds into real life. He must have been joking, or quoting something. Maybe I misheard him. Maybe I wanted to mishear him.
Still, the word reject hits differently. My chest answers it with another throb of pain, and suddenly I’m not laughing anymore.
I swing my legs off the bed. The sheet slips, whispering against my skin. My dress is a heap of emerald fabric on the floor; one heel has somehow made it halfway to the minibar.
A cuff link gleams near the nightstand, gold, engraved with the letter K. I pick it up, hold it in the palm of my hand until the edges press a small crescent into my skin.
Proof that last night happened.
Proof that he existed.
I move slowly, the way you do after a storm when you’re still waiting for the second wave. The mirror catches me mid-stride, tousled hair, smudged makeup, the faint trace of a smile that doesn’t know whether to stay or vanish.
“Congratulations, Aurora,” I mutter. “You’ve officially become a cliché.”
The shower hisses to life. Steam fills the bathroom, warm and comforting until I glance down and see it, the faint mark just below my collarbone.
At first, I think it’s lipstick, or a bruise. But when I touch it, it pulses faintly, almost like it’s alive. The skin there is warmer than the rest of me, glowing pale gold for half a heartbeat before fading again.
I scrub until it reddens, but the shimmer doesn’t disappear completely.
I don’t believe in magic. Or moon goddesses. Or any of the nonsense that fills cheap tabloids.
And yet, under the water, I can’t shake the feeling that something impossible has left its fingerprint on me.
When I step out, the suite feels colder, emptier.
His tux jacket still drapes over the armchair, folded with the kind of precision that feels deliberate, like he left it behind to prove he’d been real.
On the table sits a half-drunk cup of coffee, the surface film hardened into silence. Beside it, a white card glints beneath the glass coaster.
Kingston Industries.
Black card, gold lettering. Embossed. No note.
Typical.
I drop the card into my purse anyway. Closure is overrated, but evidence is useful.
My phone blinks with life: seven missed calls, eleven messages, all from Maggie.
The last one reads, “Where are you? Did you die or get married?”
I type back, Neither. Long story. Will call later.
Then I delete the text before sending it. Because what would I even say?
I dress quickly jeans,
I open the curtains. The skyline burns silver under the weak sun.
The city moves on, as cities always do, uncaring about who’s missing who.
Still, a piece of me stands in that frozen moment, his voice, the flash of gold in his eyes, the pain that followed. It felt real, the way a dream never does. The kind of real that doesn’t leave when you wake.
My chest throbs again, softer now, but steady. A phantom reminder.
I tell myself it’s just adrenaline, hormones, post-whatever syndrome.
My brain is a scientist; my heart apparently didn’t get the memo.
I check my phone again. Work emails have already started piling up. Warren sent a reminder about my unfinished story draft. Guilt feels easier to handle than heartbreak, so I open my laptop and start typing.
But the screen blurs. Every time I blink, I see him, Levi Kingston, all calm edges and quiet fire.
The man who kissed like he meant forever and left like he’d never existed.
Anger is easier. Anger, I can use.
Fine.
He wants to vanish? I’ll find him in the one place he can’t hide, from the truth.
I pull up the search bar and type Kingston Industries corruption rumors.
The algorithm doesn’t disappoint.
Articles flood the screen, philanthropy, charity events, press conferences. But between the lines, there’s noise: whispers about government contracts, shell donations, offshore accounts. And one name keeps repeating itself - Senator Grant Michelsen.
The same man I photographed at the gala.
The same one who shouldn’t have been talking to Levi’s legal consultant.
My pulse steadies for the first time all morning.
Pain fades; purpose replaces it.
I start digging. Pulling threads. Following numbers that don’t add up.
Every new document feels like oxygen. Every secret I uncover feels like taking back a piece of control.
Somewhere between the reports and the silence, I almost forget the hurt.
Almost.
But when the screen times out and my reflection appears again, the faint glow on my collarbone is still there. It pulses once, faint but undeniable, in sync with the heartbeat I’m trying to ignore.
I tell myself it’s just light. Just a trick of exhaustion.
Because the alternative, the idea that something supernatural could exist, that he wasn’t just lying but telling a truth I can’t understand.
That would change everything I believe about the world. About myself.
And I can’t afford that. Not yet.
I close the laptop, shove it into my bag, grab my press badge.
The newsroom won’t care if my heart is broken. They’ll care if I deliver a story.
Aurora Anderson, investigative journalist.
Functional. Fearless. Fine.
The elevator ride feels longer. My reflection in the mirrored wall looks composed, confident. I almost believe my own lie.
Outside, Seatle is loud again, chaotic, familiar. I breathe it in, letting the it drown out everything else.
Somewhere across town, Levi Kingston probably hasn’t thought of me once since walking out that door.
He’ll think of me soon enough...when my story hits the front page with his name on it.