Deals and Detonations
The Thorne Enterprises boardroom was a cathedral of glass and steel—polished, pristine, and painfully silent.
Aurora sat at the head of the long obsidian table like she’d been born to it, while seasoned men in suits shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. She knew the type: legacy investors, old money, power hoarders afraid of disruption. She was all disruption, wrapped in red lipstick and strategic silence.
“Miss Devereaux,” one of them—Mr. Clive Harrington, Chairman Emeritus—cleared his throat. “We weren’t made aware of your attendance today. Nor of your... position.”
“That’s odd,” Aurora replied smoothly, clicking her pen. “I submitted my shareholder declaration seventy-two hours ago. Perhaps your inbox needs spring cleaning.”
Snickers followed, subdued and uncertain. Aurora didn’t need their approval. She already had their shares.
Damon entered, sharp as a blade in navy and grey. The room shifted. The tension spiked. All eyes went to him, but his eyes locked onto her.
“Gentlemen,” he said, taking his seat directly across from her, “and Miss Devereaux.”
“Damon,” she replied with a smile.
Her voice wrapped around his name like silk and barbed wire. He didn’t smile back.
The meeting kicked off, reports flying: quarterly projections, new market expansions, a proposed acquisition in Dubai. Aurora listened, taking quiet mental notes. When it was time, she rose.
“I’ve reviewed the Montenegro Resort plans,” she said, flipping open a file. “And I have concerns.”
The room tensed.
“Concerns?” Clive frowned. “It’s a flagship project. Approved by our lead architects and finance division.”
Aurora stepped toward the projection screen, sliding in a USB drive.
Within seconds, the screen displayed construction delays, zoning restrictions, hidden cost overruns, and an anonymous lawsuit filed against the project for environmental violations.
“Your lead architects missed this,” Aurora said. “And your finance team’s projections don’t account for a 7% market drop due to tourism sanctions.”
A heavy silence fell.
“How did you get this data?” Damon asked, his voice low.
She met his gaze.
“I dig deeper than your team.”
Another beat. Then, Clive leaned forward. “And what do you propose, Miss Devereaux?”
Aurora smiled. “That we freeze all Montenegro operations and reallocate the funds toward the stalled Thorne-Kyoto collaboration. Japanese tourism is projected to recover faster. It’s safer. Smarter.”
The board murmured in agreement. Damon said nothing.
“She’s right,” Clive finally said. “We’ll vote on the reallocation next session.”
The meeting adjourned. Aurora gathered her files, triumphant, when Damon’s voice stopped her.
“Miss Devereaux. A word.”
\---
Private Office, Minutes Later
The door clicked shut behind them. The city sprawled outside, a concrete jungle soaking in late-morning light.
Damon turned to her, arms crossed. “Who the hell are you?”
Aurora blinked innocently. “Your business partner.”
“Don’t play me.” His voice was sharper now. “I don’t like surprises. And I don’t like being undermined in front of my board.”
“Then maybe don’t present sloppy projects.”
Damon’s jaw flexed.
“Where did you get those files?”
She smiled. “Is that the part that bothers you—or the fact that I did your job better than you?”
He stepped closer. “You don’t belong in my company.”
Aurora didn’t step back. “Yet here I am.”
Their faces were inches apart now. She could see the storm in his eyes, the twitch of his brow, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides.
“Who sent you?” he asked. “Which competitor planted you here?”
Aurora let out a soft laugh. “Is it so hard to believe that a woman could come this far on her own?”
“In my experience,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “nothing is ever what it seems.”
“And yet you still signed my entry papers.”
He stared at her, and for a moment—just a moment—his gaze dipped to her lips. Something flickered in his expression. Confusion. Heat. Recognition?
Before either of them could speak, his assistant’s voice buzzed through the intercom.
“Mr. Thorne, your mother is here.”
His mood soured instantly.
“Send her up,” he said curtly.
Aurora raised an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”
Damon didn’t answer. She started toward the door.
“Aurora.”
She turned at the sound of her name from his lips. No pretense. Just her name.
He stared at her, eyes darker now. “I’m watching you.”
Aurora smiled softly. “Watch closely, Damon. You might learn something.”
\---
Fifteen Minutes Later — Damon’s Private Lounge
Damon’s mother, Genevieve Thorne, was a woman carved from legacy. She wore Chanel like armor and pearls like bullets. She entered the lounge with the air of someone used to being obeyed.
“I saw the investor meeting notes,” she said, sitting down. “Who is this woman?”
“Her name’s Aurora Devereaux.”
“That’s not a name, that’s an illusion. You know nothing about her. And yet she owns nearly a fifth of your company.”
Damon sipped his drink. “I’m working on it.”
“Work faster. The board already whispers about your judgment. You’ve been... distracted.”
He frowned. “She’s not a distraction.”
Genevieve’s gaze sharpened. “She’s a problem. And if you can’t see it, you’re blinder than your father.”
Damon stood abruptly. “I don’t need a lecture, Mother.”
“You need a leash on that woman before she buries you.”
He didn’t answer. Because part of him—dammit—was starting to wonder if his mother was right.
\---
That Evening — Aurora’s Apartment
Aurora entered the penthouse she rented under an alias. It was a far cry from the tiny basement studio she had once shared with her mother. But nothing could replace what she lost.
She walked straight into the nursery.
Caleb was asleep in a fort of pillows and stuffed lions. His tiny chest rose and fell in rhythm. She brushed a strand of hair off his forehead and kissed him gently.
“I did it,” she whispered. “He looked me in the eye. And he doesn’t know.”
But it hurt.
God, it hurt.
How could Damon look at her and not feel it? Not see what they’d once had? Did love fade that easily?
She returned to the living room and poured herself wine. The city was quiet. But her soul wasn’t.
Aurora picked up a photograph from the bookshelf: her mother smiling in their old apartment, holding Aurora in one arm and a mop in the other.
“You were right,” Aurora murmured. “Love doesn’t protect you. It destroys you.”
But revenge—that was fireproof.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
“You made waves today. Be careful. Thorne blood runs colder than you think.”
Aurora stared at the screen, unflinching.
Let them come.
She was already burning.
\---