The Storm Before the Truth
The late evening sun bathed the Thorne skyscraper in a golden glow, but Damon Thorne barely noticed. He sat in his office, blinds half-drawn, the city skyline gleaming like a wall of secrets beyond the glass. On his desk lay a file—slim, incomplete, and infuriatingly vague.
“Aurora Devereaux,” he murmured.
He leaned back, tossing the file across the desk.
His private investigator had been unable to dig up anything meaningful before 2019. No childhood records. No prior employment. Just a woman who appeared—brilliant, bold, and immaculate—out of nowhere. And now she held a key seat at his table.
But it wasn’t her résumé that haunted him.
It was the ghost of a name from his past: Rory.
A nickname. A memory. Faint laughter under starlight. A girl with warm eyes and a defiant grin. A girl he had once kissed under a tree at sixteen and never saw again.
Could Aurora…?
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “It’s not possible.”
But his gut twisted with doubt.
---
Across the city, Aurora stood with Carla beneath a narrow bridge in Central Park, watching the water trickle beneath. A childhood spot—one Caleb liked. The only place Aurora felt she could breathe lately.
“I think he’s starting to suspect,” Carla said, hugging her coat closer.
Aurora’s face remained still. “Let him.”
“That’s not a plan. It’s a dare.”
Aurora turned to her. “The board review is in ten days. If we don’t corner Damon before then, Gregory will sweep the Madrid embezzlement files under the rug.”
Carla hesitated. “You’re pushing this too fast.”
“I’ve waited five years.”
“You’re emotionally tied to this—”
“I am this,” Aurora snapped, voice cracking.
Silence fell between them. Carla softened.
“You’re not alone in this war, Rory.”
Aurora looked away. She hadn’t heard that name in years. It sounded like a scar.
---
Later that night, the annual Thorne Foundation Gala buzzed with camera flashes, laughter, and champagne. The city's elite mingled under a grand chandelier, but Aurora moved like a shadow among them—cold, beautiful, untouchable.
She hadn’t expected to see Gregory so soon.
He cornered her near the ballroom entrance with the calm menace of a man who enjoyed his power.
“You wear your mother’s fire,” he said smoothly.
Aurora stiffened.
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize it?” Gregory continued, leaning closer. “Your eyes gave you away. Just like hers did the night she begged me not to press charges.”
Aurora’s heart pounded. “You destroyed her.”
“She destroyed herself. I just helped the world see it sooner.”
Her hand twitched, but she forced herself to smile. “You’re right about one thing, Mr. Thorne. I am my mother’s daughter. And I’ve come to finish what she couldn’t.”
He chuckled, eyes glittering. “That boy of yours… what’s his name? Caleb?”
Aurora went rigid.
Gregory’s smile widened. “Thought I didn’t know?”
“If you go near him—”
“I won’t have to. One whisper, and the press will tear your perfect lie apart. Be careful, Miss Devereaux. Blood may thicken, but reputation stains.”
Aurora turned and walked away before she did something she couldn’t undo.
---
Later, Damon stood on the rooftop of his private office suite, drink in hand. The sky overhead was scattered with stars, but his mind was grounded—confused, stormy.
When Aurora stepped onto the terrace, he didn’t turn immediately.
“You brought me here once,” she said softly. “Years ago. You said it felt like being above everything that hurt.”
Damon slowly looked over his shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking about my past,” he said. “About a girl.”
“Rory?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He froze.
“That’s her,” he whispered. “How do you know that name?”
Aurora swallowed hard. “Lucky guess.”
Damon stepped closer. “No. You’re not lucky. You’re precise. Cold when you need to be. Fire when you want. Just like she was.”
Aurora looked away.
“I cared about her,” he said quietly. “She mattered more than I realized until it was too late.”
“You think about her often?” Aurora asked, voice low.
“Only when I wonder why I stopped believing in real things.”
The vulnerability in his eyes made her chest ache.
“I’m not who you think I am, Damon,” she whispered.
“Then tell me who you are.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I do…” She stepped back. “You’ll hate me.”
A silence stretched between them, aching and raw.
Damon reached for her hand. “Let me in, Aurora.”
She yanked it away. “You were in once. Look what happened.”
Then she turned and left him under the stars, wondering if maybe ghosts weren’t always dead.
---
The next morning, Damon walked into his office early and found a folder on the floor near the desk. Carla’s file—dropped during yesterday’s rush.
He picked it up.
Inside were reports. Legal documents. And a photograph.
Aurora.
And a little boy.
His heart stilled.
The boy had his eyes.
His jawline.
Even that small, stubborn tilt of the chin.
“No…”
Damon dropped into his chair, staring at the image.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
Her guarded nature. Her presence in the company. Her silence.
“She’s Rory,” he whispered. “And that boy…”
His chest tightened.
“My son.”
---