Chapter 207
Chapter 207:
The door of the lead SUV flew open.
A figure jumped out.
He was wearing a long, dark wool trench coat that billowed behind him like a cape. He didn’t duck his head. He didn’t run. He walked through the chaotic wind with a terrifying, singular focus.
Elias Thorne.
Aurora’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the cold. She stood rooted to the spot, her breath catching in her throat.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was in D.C. He was hundreds of miles away.
He crossed the street, ignoring the honking taxis, ignoring his security detail scrambling to catch up. His eyes were locked on hers.
He reached the curb and stopped in front of her. He was breathing hard, his hair dusted with snow, his face flushed from the cold or the adrenaline.
“You sent a picture,” he said. His voice was rough, deep. “I wanted to see the real thing.”
Aurora stared at him. “You came back… for snow?”
“I ended the meeting early,” he corrected, his eyes searching hers for any sign of damage. “And broke several FAA speed regulations. The assets are frozen, Aurora. Eleanor’s accounts are locked. We are ready.”
He didn’t care about the people watching from the museum steps. He didn’t care about the gala. He reached out and wrapped his scarf around her neck. It was warm, smelling of sandalwood and him. His knuckles brushed against her jawline, his skin burning hot against her frozen cheek.
“You’re cold,” he murmured.
“I’m fine,” she lied, her voice trembling.
Elias looked over her shoulder at the museum. His eyes narrowed, the warmth vanishing instantly. “Did they hurt you?”
“Just words,” Aurora said. “And some spilled wine.”
Elias’s jaw tightened. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen once. “Watch,” he said.A second later, a deafening boom shook the ground.
Aurora jumped, grabbing his lapels.
Over the Hudson River, a massive firework exploded. Then another. And another. Gold, violet, and crimson shattered the darkness of the snowy sky. It wasn’t a holiday. It wasn’t a scheduled event.
It was a statement. A signal to his allies in the city that the Thorne King had returned, and the hunt was on.
Inside the gala, the guests rushed to the windows. The boring speeches were forgotten. The social climbing halted. Everyone stared at the sky, wondering who had the power—and the audacity—to commission a private fireworks display over Manhattan on a Tuesday night.
Vivian Kensington stood by the window, her glass trembling in her hand. The light from the explosions illuminated her face, twisting her features into a mask of ugly jealousy.
She knew.
She didn’t need to ask. Only one man did things like this.
Outside, Elias pulled Aurora close, shielding her from the wind with his body. The snow turned into rain of light around them.