Chapter 93
Chapter 93:
A mark. A crescent moon on the inner arm.
She pulled back her own sleeve. Her arm was smooth, flawless. Blank.
She cursed silently. She didn’t have it.
But now she knew what to look for.
Find the girl with the moon on her arm.
Pulse Interactive Server Room.
Aurora was standing at a workstation, reviewing code on three monitors. She was dressed in a sharp blazer and jeans, looking every bit the CEO she was.
“Chloe!” she called out. “Check the cooling units on Rack 4. The temperature is spiking p>
Chloe, a junior network engineer she had recently hired, popped her head up.
“On it, boss,” Chloe said, grabbing a toolkit.
Aurora reached up to tie her hair back. Her sleeve rode up.
Chloe paused as she walked by. “Whoa. Cool tattoo p>
“What?” Aurora looked at her arm.
“That red moon thing,” Chloe pointed to the inner part of Aurora’s arm. “It’s super detailed. Did it hurt p>
Aurora pulled her sleeve down quickly. A reflex. She had always hidden it. Sterling used to call it a “stain p>
“It’s not a tattoo,” Aurora said, her voice tight. “Just a birthmark. A defect p>
“I think it’s pretty,” Chloe shrugged. “Like a secret symbol p>
Aurora rubbed her arm. She remembered looking at it as a child, wondering why she was the only one in the orphanage with such a mark.
More content now at gⱯlησvℯ𝓁s․com
“Get back to work, Chloe,” Aurora said softly.
Chloe nodded and went to the server rack.
Aurora walked to the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark.
In the hospital room, Matriarch Vane stared at the empty doorway, her hand clutching the bedsheet.
In the server room, Aurora stared at the sky, clutching her arm.
The invisible thread between them pulled tight, a web of secrets waiting to be unraveled.
And in the hallway of the hospital, Vivian Kensington smiled, a hunter who had just caught the scent of blood.
The vintage Pinot Noir swirled smoothly as Harper poured it into the two crystal glasses sitting on the Italian marble coffee table. The sound was a soft chime in the expansive quiet of the Obsidian Tower Penthouse, a stark contrast to the wind howling against the reinforced glass forty stories above the city.
Harper Yates sat on the plush velvet rug, her back resting against the designer sofa. She watched the red liquid settle in the glass. It was a dark, rich crimson, reminding her of the dress she had worn to her debutante ball—the night Aurora had silenced the entire room.
“So,” Harper started, her voice laced with the casual confidence of old money. She fingered the delicate stem of her glass. “There’s a rumor going around the country club. About your liquidity p>