Page 2 of Felix (4 Seats #2)
Chapter Two
Aurora Henry
T he 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.