Chapter 162
Chapter 162:
Back at Mount Sinai Hospital, the atmosphere in the VIP wing was not one of recovery, but of a detonated bomb.
The monitors were rhythmic and steady now—a stark contrast to the hysteria gripping the room. Matriarch Kensington was not waking up; she was fully awake, her eyes wide and burning with a terrifying clarity that defied her physical frailty. The moment of recognition had already happened, and its shockwaves were tearing the family apart.
“She saw me,” the Matriarch rasped, her voice weak but the conviction in it iron-clad. She wasn’t hallucinating. She was remembering.
Edward sat frozen by the bedside, his face pale, his hands trembling as they hovered over the bedsheets. The echo of his mother’s accusation hung in the air: “She has the blood. The Kensington Green p>
“Mother, please,” Vivian interjected, her voice shrill with panic. She paced the room, her heels clicking aggressively. “You were under heavy anesthesia. You saw a girl in a green dress at a party, and then you saw a doctor. Your mind is mixing them up. It’s a trauma response p>
“Do not gaslight me, Vivian,” the Matriarch hissed, turning her head slowly to glare at her granddaughter. “I may be old, and I may be dying, but I know what I saw. I held her wrist. I felt her pulse. And I looked into her eyes. They were Edward’s eyes. Not just the color. The soul p>
Eleanor Kensington stood near the window, her back rigid. She was watching her husband, Edward. She saw the hope dawning on his face—a dangerous, destructive hope that could undo nineteen years of careful estate planning.
“Edward,” Eleanor said sharply, “Dr. Shaw said the brain swelling could cause confusion. We cannot chase ghosts based on a post-operative delusion. The girl is a Vance. A nobody from the Bronx p>
“She is not a nobody,” Edward whispered. He stood up, wiping tears from his face. “She saved her. And… I felt it too. When she looked at me. It was like looking in a mirror p>
𝓞𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓲𝓷 𝓼𝓲𝓽𝓮 →
“Find her,” the Matriarch commanded, pointing a shaking finger at the door where Aurora had vanished. “Do not let her disappear again. If she is the one… bring her home p>
The penthouse of the Obsidian Tower was a fortress of glass and steel, floating above the Manhattan storm. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, the climate was controlled, the air scented with white tea and ozone.
Aurora stood in her kitchen, a sleek expanse of black marble and hidden appliances. She had changed into a simple silk robe, the dark fabric stark against her pale skin. She was trying to make tea, but her hands were still trembling—a delayed reaction to the bio-electric drain of the Golden Gate Resonance technique.
The private elevator chimed.
Aurora didn’t turn around. She knew who it was. Only one other person had the override codes.
“I thought you drove away,” she said, listening to the heavy footsteps approach across the hardwood floor.
“I drove around the block,” Elias’s voice came from behind her, deep and unbothered. “I wanted to make sure you actually went upstairs and didn’t try to run to the airport p>
He walked into her line of sight, leaning against the refrigerator. He had discarded his wet coat, his suit jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He looked at home in her space—too big, too dangerous, yet fitting perfectly into the sharp angles of her life.