Felix

Chapter One

Aurora Henry

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac hard, jolting me awake from my half-sleep. I’m in Sydney now—there’s no turning back. My heart races as the weight of the upcoming book signing event bears down on me like a ton of bricks. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park—it never is when you’ve got a past like mine.

Welcome to Sydney, announces the flight attendant as I exit the aircraft. The air here is different—electrifying. It makes my skin crawl, but not in a bad way. I step out of the terminal and breathe, trying to steady myself. I feel the energy pulsating through the city, the hum of traffic, and the chatter of people.

It’s been an eternity since I last stepped foot in this place, and I never found myself pining to return. The memories that haunt these grounds are too painful to revisit. Each step is a reminder of my past. As I gaze around at the familiar surroundings, my heart remains heavy with regret and sadness. This is a place of bittersweet nostalgia, where the ghosts of my past still linger, but it holds no allure for me now.

As I exit the terminal, I see a gruff-looking man holding a sign that reads, ‘Aurora Henry.’ Clearly, this is my taxi driver.

That’s me, I say to the man, forcing a smile.

Got a big day ahead? he asks as he takes my luggage and hauls it into the boot.

You could say that, I mutter, my mind racing with anticipation and nerves.

Good luck then, he says, slamming the boot shut. Jump in.

As we drive through Sydney, I can’t help but feel the city closing in around me. The towering skyscrapers loom like giants, casting long shadows over the bustling streets. The smell of grease and exhaust fumes fills the air, mingling with the salty tang of the nearby harbour. Horns blare, people shout, and laughter echoes through the alleys. It’s a wild symphony of chaos, alive and kicking.

What you here for? he asks.

A book signing. I sigh.

Excited for it? the driver asks in return.

Sure, I lie, the anxiety gnawing at my insides like a starving dog. I can’t let him know how much this event is messing with my head.

What book did you write? he asks, his curiosity piqued.

"Dancing with Masked Men, I reply. Today is mainly for that particular book."

I’ve heard about that one over the radio… heard it’s a real page-turner, he continues, obviously trying to make small talk. I appreciate the effort, but right now, I need silence.

Thanks, I mutter, gazing out the window at the vibrant cityscape—so different from the darkness lurking within me. Sydney may be alive and thriving, but inside, I’m constantly fighting off demons from my past.

Alrighty then, here we are, announces the driver as we pull up to the hotel. Have a good one, Aurora.

Thanks, I say, shoving a wad of cash into his hand before stepping onto the busy sidewalk.

It isn’t until I’m halfway inside the hotel that I realise he dropped me off at the wrong one. Shit. I’m going to have to walk a few blocks to get to the correct hotel.

Damn, Sydney’s a maze, I mutter under my breath. The twisted streets and towering skyscrapers threaten to swallow me whole, but I refuse to let this city break me.

Excuse me, miss. A middle-aged bloke with greying hair approaches me. Are you lost?

Something like that, I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. Just need to find my way to the Hilton Hotel.

Ah, right around the corner there. He points, his eyes lingering on my tattoos.

Thanks, I snarl, leaving him in the dust as I round the corner and see the hotel.

Thankfully, the bookshop where I am scheduled to sign is only one block from here. As I walk through the sliding doors, a young man stands before me—tall and blond with piercing blue eyes. If he were just ten years older, I might attempt to pursue him. Can I take your bags, miss? he asks charmingly.

Yes, thank you, I reply, taking note of his name tag—Matt. Well, Matt, you handsome devil. You’ll be getting a tip today.

I follow Matt to the front desk to retrieve my room check-in and grab my room key. As we walk, I admire his strong stature and confident demeanour and wonder if he is a dancer—his body looks suited for the role. Once inside my room, I quickly change into my signing attire and head back out in search of the bookshop. My event starts in thirty minutes, so I must arrive on time.

Deep breaths, Aurora, I tell myself, forcing my racing heart to slow. Inside, I’m a fucking mess. My past traumas claw at my insides, threatening to spill out on the pavement as I head towards the bookshop doors. The memories of cold metal cuffs biting into my flesh and the taste of blood from the countless beatings come to mind. I shudder, willing the darkness away.

Welcome to our special event! greets a perky employee as I push open the door. Her smile is too bright, her cheerfulness grating against my raw nerves. You must be Aurora Henry. We’re so excited to have you here!

Sure thing, I say, plastering on a fake grin as I follow her deeper into the shop. My broken past may haunt me, but I won’t let it stop me from living my dream.

Here’s your table, she says, gesturing to a small setup near the back. A stack of my books sits neatly on the table, looking so innocent and untouched. If only they knew the horrors that lurked between those pages were, in fact, true stories.

Thank you, I mutter, taking my seat and trying to push away the ghosts of my past.

Alright, everyone, please welcome Aurora Henry! announces the store manager, and I brace myself for the onslaught of questions, the probing eyes, and the inevitable judgement.

Let’s do this, I whisper, steeling my resolve as I meet the gaze of the first person in line. The darkness inside me may be a part of who I am, but it doesn’t define me. I’m stronger than that. I’ve survived, and I’ll keep surviving, no matter what life throws my way.

Hi, I’m Aurora. Nice to meet you.

I’m sitting there, scrawling my name across the title page of yet another book, and I can’t help but think that, fuck, this is exhausting. Smiling like some goddamn Stepford wife, I feel the ache in my cheeks from hours of faking it.

Thank you so much, Aurora, some woman gushes as she clutches her newly signed copy to her chest. I love your work!

Thanks, I mutter, forcing a smile. Thanks for coming, I say as if we’re old fucking friends or something.

After what feels like an eternity, the last eager reader finally straggles away, their footsteps echoing through the now-empty bookshop. The walls seem to close in on me as I gather up my belongings, eager to escape this claustrophobic hellhole. The overwhelming presence of people and crowds has been too much for me to handle for years, the constant chatter and noise setting my nerves on edge. My heart races and palms sweat as I hurry towards the door, desperate for some fresh air.

Finally, I slip out into the balmy Sydney night, relieved to be free from the suffocating atmosphere inside and head towards the hotel.

As I approach the hotel, I notice the sexy blond-haired doorman waiting to greet me. His eyes linger on the tattoos that snake up my arms, remnants of a life I’d rather forget. But hey, he’s not bad to look at—a nice distraction from the endless parade of adoring fans.

Evening, he says with a smirk, holding open the door for me.

Hey, I reply, nodding my head in acknowledgement. Yum, it’s a pity he is so young.

The lift ride up to my room feels like an eternity, and I’m reminded of how much I fucking hate travelling. As soon as the door slides open, I make a beeline for my room, tossing my bag on the bed.

Room service? I mumble into the phone after dialling the front desk. Yeah, I’ll take a burger and fries. And a bottle of tequila.

Hanging up, I strip off the layers of constricting clothes, tossing them carelessly on the floor. Sliding between the cool sheets, I let out a sigh of relief—finally, some fucking peace and quiet.

As I lay there, waiting for my food to arrive, I can’t help but feel the weight of the day bearing down on me. The faces of those eager fans and the whispered words of praise all feel like a cruel joke. If they knew the real Aurora Henry, the woman behind the carefully crafted persona, would they still be so enamoured? Or would they recoil in horror, desperate to erase the grisly images from their minds?

Would they ever realise the people in my books are real, and the horrific events I wrote about happened to me?

Chapter Two

Aurora Henry

The sun’s a real bitch this morning, stabbing my eyes through the blinds I forgot to close. Fucking great. I groan as I shove my face deeper into the pillow, trying to ignore the world outside, but I can’t escape it forever. There’s another book signing today and lunch with my publicist.

Get your shit together, Aurora, I mutter to myself, peeling my body from the tangled mess of sheets.

I drag myself to the bathroom, taking in my reflection in the mirror—long, black hair a mess and dark circles under my eyes that scream ‘I’ve seen some shit’ louder than words ever could. I splash cold water on my face, shake off the remnants of sleep, and start preparing for the day.

Stupid book signing, I grumble as I pull on a black business dress that shows off my ink. Might as well own it. People call me brave, but they don’t know the half of it. They see my tattoos, read my books about pain and survival, and think they get it. But they don’t. Nobody does.

Alright, let’s fucking do this, I say to my reflection, lips twisting into a smirk. My stomach churns at the thought of the bookshop full of people wanting to pick my brain. And then there’s lunch with my publicist—the woman who thinks she knows me best because she reads my words and profits off my pain. But I’m more than they’ll ever see.

My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s a text from my publicist.

Vanessa: Looking forward to our meeting, Aurora!

Sure you are, I mumble, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

Let’s get this over with, I say as I grab my bag and step out into the world, ready to fight whatever comes my way.

Stepping out of the hotel, I squint against the bright sunlight. I fucking hate mornings—always have. As I fumble for my sunglasses, a sleek black car pulls up to the curb. My heartbeat quickens as the tall, blond doorman, Matt, jumps out, all smiles and muscles. He’s got that whole Nordic god look going on.

Morning, miss! he calls as he holds the door open so I can see the driver. Damn, if this guy isn’t even sexier than the doorman—olive skin, dark hair, and eyes that seem to see right through me. He waves to Matt and drives off, leaving me with nothing but daydreams about jumping in that car and doing some seriously naughty things with him. My pussy clenches at the thought.

Hey, Matt, I mutter, tearing my gaze away from the car as it disappears around the corner. Have a good day.

Thanks, you too! he replies with a grin that could melt icebergs. Fucking hell, why does everybody have to be so damn cheerful in the morning?

I shake off the thought and start walking down the street towards the bookshop where I’m signing today. The sidewalk is crowded with people rushing to work, their faces buried in their phones or hidden behind takeaway coffee cups. Don’t these people ever stop to think about what they’re missing? The world is going to shit, and they’re too busy scrolling through feeds and sipping lattes to notice.

Speaking of which, I could use a caffeine hit myself. I duck into a coffee shop and order an espresso—no sugar, no milk. Just the way I like it—bitter and black like my soul.

Here you go, miss, the barista says as he hands me the cup. I force a smile and mumble my thanks.

Sipping the hot, dark liquid, I head back out onto the street, feeling the familiar burn as it slides down my throat. The caffeine hits me like a slap in the face, waking me up and sharpening my senses. Time to face the day.

I step inside the bookshop, and a familiar chill runs down my spine. The place is packed with people, all eager to get their hands on my latest creation. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the onslaught of questions and compliments that’ll come my way.

Miss Henry, we’re so happy to have you here, the store manager gushes as she leads me to a table piled high with copies of my book. Your fans are very excited.

Thank you, can’t wait, I mutter under my breath, plastering on a fake smile as I sit. Let the signing begin.

For three fucking hours, I scribble my name across the title page, making small talk.

Your writing is so raw and powerful, one woman says, her eyes wide with admiration. You must have a vivid imagination.

Something like that, I reply, clenching my jaw. If only they knew the truth.

Finally, the line dwindles to the last few stragglers, and I feel my energy draining. Just a little longer, Aurora. You can do this.

Thank you for coming, I tell the last fan, forcing a smile as they walk away. I pack up my stuff and make a beeline for the exit.

Great job today, Aurora! my publicist, Vanessa, calls out as she catches up to me. Let’s grab some lunch and talk about your book’s success.

Sure, why not? I say, unable to hide my exhaustion. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

We settle into a booth at a nearby café, and Vanessa wastes no time launching into her spiel. Sales are through the roof, Aurora. People are loving it. Have you considered turning it into a series?

Fuck no, I bite back. I dredged up enough demons for this one. It’s a one-of-a-kind thing, like me.

As I say the words, my mind flashes back to the shackles that once bound me, the pain and humiliation I endured. I shudder, trying to shake off the memories. It’s been years, but they still cling to me like a shadow I can’t escape.

Are you okay? Vanessa asks, concern etched on her face.

Fine, I reply, pushing away the remnants of my past. Just hungry. Let’s order.

Vanessa nods, seemingly relieved to move on from the topic. We place our orders and dive into a safer conversation about upcoming book events. But even as we talk, the darkness inside me lingers, a constant reminder of who I am and where I come from.

And no amount of success or praise can erase that.

As soon as lunch is finished, I race back to the hotel, feeling like a goddamn caged animal. I slam the door behind me and kick off my shoes, desperate to wash away the day’s grime. The shower’s hot spray pelts against my skin, stinging like a thousand tiny needles. Good. Let it hurt. It reminds me I’m alive.

As I step out of the shower, I glimpse at myself in the mirror, my dark eyes staring back at me. Fucking hell, I look exhausted. I slip into a black dress—tight, sexy, but still appropriate for an evening out. I need a drink. No, scratch that—several drinks.

Get your shit together, Aurora, I mutter to myself as I apply some lipstick. It’s a deep crimson shade, bold enough to make a statement.

I head out into the city, searching for a decent bar where I can drown my sorrows. After scanning a few options, I settle on a dimly lit dive with a neon sign flickering above the entrance. Perfect. The more run-down, the better.

Whiskey, neat, I order, sliding onto a stool at the bar. The bartender nods and sets a glass in front of me. I take a swig, savouring the burn as it slips down my throat. Fuck, that’s good.

Rough day? the bartender asks casually, wiping down the bench.

Try rough life, I reply, taking another sip. But today was particularly shitty.

Tell me about it, he says, leaning in with curiosity in his eyes. He’s probably not expecting an answer, but I want to vent.

Imagine being haunted by your past every damn day, I start, my voice low and bitter. And then having to relive it repeatedly because people keep asking you about it since you were stupid enough to write a damn book about it and claim it was fiction.

Sounds like a nightmare, he says sympathetically.

Damn right, it is, I agree, finishing off my whiskey. But the world ain’t gonna stop turning just ‘cause I’m hurting, so I keep going.

Another? the bartender asks, gesturing to my empty glass.

Fuck yeah, I respond, slamming the glass on the bench. Keep ‘em coming.

As the afternoon wears on, I let myself sink deeper into the haze of alcohol, letting the buzz numb the pain that’s never far from the surface.

Finally, I look at the clock and realise it’s dinner time. My favourite old Italian restaurant better still be open, I grumble to myself as I slip off the stool.

Thanks for the drinks, I say to the bartender, feeling the effects of the whiskey on my balance. I pay my tab and stumble into the cool evening air slapping against my face, taking some of the alcohol buzz with it as I make my way down to the harbour, craving some chilli prawn pasta.

Chapter Three

Felix Greyson

The phone vibrates in my hand, jolting me out of my thoughts. I glance at the screen and see Matteo’s name flashing on the screen. My heart rate quickens as I answer, knowing it must be important.

Yeah? I say, trying to sound calm and collected even though my pulse is racing.

Felix, I need you to bring some cash to the Italian restaurant down at the harbour, Matteo’s voice crackles through the phone, rough and gravelly. I can