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AURORA

The ache never ceases, no matter how deeply I try to bury it.

I communicate only with those who are necessary. I fight the urge to check the constant stream of texts, calls, and notifications, anticipating something from Jackson, even though I’ve blocked him.

My stupid, stupid heart refuses to accept that it’s over.

I tell Ethan I’m fine. It’s a lie, and we both know it. I’m shattered.

I place ice over my eyes, attempting to erase the puffiness from crying the last few days, and I repeat to myself over and over that Jackson isn’t my problem and this baby isn’t his.

He doesn’t matter.

This mindset lasts about three minutes until another snapshot of him with someone else invades my peace. Then, I use all my willpower to push that image away and pray never to see it again.

I don’t allow myself to feel. I can’t afford to feel. I’m able to look pretty. That’s something I can control.

I adorn cat eyes as sharp as the knife I’d like to plunge into Jackson’s heart, plus seductive, matte red lipstick. I wear my long hair in my signature beach waves, a reminder of who I was before I got comfortable.

Scouring the designer clothes, I select an outfit that demands the most attention—a stunning, slinky silver minidress.

The fabric is almost sheer and clings gracefully to my curves.

Delicate spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline add a tempting allure.

Completing the sex appeal is a pair of four-inch heels I long ago became an expert at walking in.

The attire may not be ideal for the New York fall weather, but it conveys the message. It hides my pregnancy and proves I’ll have no trouble gracing the runway.

It also screams— fuck Jackson O’Reilly.

I eat when Ricky puts food in front of me every four hours like clockwork, along with a prenatal pill in the morning, and I soak up all his affection and motivating words.

Wherever he leads, I follow.

We exit the car to meet Felicity and the designer, and I don’t evade the cameras. My heels hit the sidewalk, and Ricky takes my hand so delicately, that for a fleeting moment, I can pretend I’m appreciated, cared for, and loved, even if it’s just an illusion born out of desperation.

I wear a playful smile, masking the storm of emotions that rage within me.

When the paparazzi mention Jackson, I arch a brow and ask, “Who?” with feigned indifference.

They laugh and snap their photos until the elevator doors close, and I sag against my bodyguard.

He gives my fingers an encouraging squeeze. “Deep breaths. Nail this contract, and you can go home to a bubble bath. I’ll even order you some books.”

I gaze up at him in awe, wondering how he knows I enjoy reading. Before I can verbalize my thoughts, the bell dings, signaling our destination, and he breaks contact, dropping my hand.

Once we step off the elevator, Felicity waves me into her office and shuts the door.

She wraps her arms around me. “I’m so sorry, babe.”

“Don’t be. Everyone warned me. I didn’t listen.” I pull out of her embrace, afraid if someone holds me for too long, I’ll break down. I won’t let Jackson’s betrayal overshadow a day that’s all mine.

“What are you going to do?”

“Never talk to him again.” What else is there?

“And the baby?”

I had forgotten about our lie, the facade of him being the baby’s father, and the curiosity in her voice turns my stomach sour. It’s no one’s business.

“We’ll be fine. Let’s move on.” I gesture with my hand, a dismissive wave. I refuse to satisfy anyone’s need for gossip.

“Certainly.” She holds me at arm’s length and scans me from head to toe. “Stunning! Paulo is already in love with you. You’re going to kill this.”

She draws me in for another embrace, and I exhale in relief, releasing the tension in my stiff shoulders.

The designer, Paulo, kisses my cheeks, his ruddy face lit with enthusiasm despite my predicament.

Our meeting is straightforward. He only has two requests: I walk the runway and work in New York through Fashion Week.

Winter Fashion Week is seven weeks away, and surprisingly, being in New York for such an extended period is a weight off my chest. It’s the first overwhelmingly positive emotion since seeing my boyfriend snorting cocaine with a pair of puck bunnies.

I glance at Felicity for confirmation. Her urgent nod reminds me of all the commitments we’ve canceled to appease my ex.

Since I’d love nothing more than to avoid LA, staying in New York is a fan-freaking-tastic idea. Ethan will either understand or not care, considering his busy schedule.

Besides, I’m still determining the direction of our relationship.

A selfish side of me needs him to be here, and his absence adds to my sense of abandonment. But a rational—or critical—part of my mind tells me I’m ridiculous for even thinking that.

Why would he neglect his responsibilities to console me over a breakup, for fuck’s sake?

Felicity widens her eyes, and I realize Paulo is talking to me while I agonize over men like an idiot.

“Fashion Week is more about exposure, and you, my dear, bring the paparazzi wherever you go. There’s a huge buildup to the main event, so plan on being available to attend an assortment of fittings and photo shoots.”

On the outside, I muster a bright smile. On the inside, I grimace. Yay me, social events. “Fabulous. Where do I sign?”

My mask is convincing enough to secure the contract and hopefully open doors to a desperately needed future.

Paulo and I exchange numbers before other commitments whisk him away. Then, Felicity and I review the financial details, my attention shifting to practicalities. I’m back in the game, focusing on providing stability for myself and my child.

“The pay is standard. Fifty-five hundred per day, all expenses covered. You’ll get a guaranteed four hundred grand for walking the runway during Fashion Week. There’s also the possibility of extending your contract or securing another designer.”

I calculate everything in my head. The earnings are enough for a nice down payment on a place.

Plus, I still receive royalties from my magazine covers.

Hope flutters, mingling with the weight of responsibility.

Life in both LA and New York is costly. I’ll need to cover Ricky’s expenses, even though he tells me not to worry about it, plus my grandmother’s nursing home, which is an absolute necessity.

“What’s wrong? We can negotiate,” Felicity interrupts my anxious thoughts.

I recline in her plush office chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. “I’m not disappointed with the pay. That’s not the issue. I need to maintain it, and I’m willing to move from LA if necessary.”

The more I consider it, the more excited I am to leave my past behind. I can fly to visit Grams. It wasn’t what I wanted, but fuck, neither is this heartache.

On the West Coast, Jackson O’Reilly will haunt me.

“Don’t make any hasty decisions while you’re hurt and emotional. We’ll talk more about future projects as they become available. What’s the next step with your infamous ex?”

“What are my choices? It’s over.”

“We can issue a public statement asking everyone to respect your privacy, blah, blah, blah. Or …” She emphasizes the word with a raise of her perfectly manicured brows. “You can take proactive measures to manage the situation, appearing together?—”

“That’s not happening.” I immediately reject the idea, shaking my head emphatically. “I never want to see Jackson again.”

“Then we ignore it and move on.” Felicity shrugs, hands up in a gesture of nonchalance.

As if moving on is a quick fix.

As if Jackson didn’t just shred my heart and stomp on it for the world to witness.

Burying the pain, I adopt her attitude. “It’s not worth the effort of making a statement. I’m focused on my career right now, and that’s all.”

I don’t care how much it hurts. I’ll paint on a fake smile until everyone believes I’ve moved on from Jackson O’Reilly.

Including me.