Page 2 of Felix

Deep breaths, Aurora, I tell myself, forcing my racing heart to slow. Inside, I’m a fucking mess. My past traumas claw at my insides, threatening to spill out on the pavement as I head towards the bookshop doors. The memories of cold metal cuffs biting into my flesh and the taste of blood from the countless beatings come to mind. I shudder, willing the darkness away.

“Welcome to our special event!” greets a perky employee as I push open the door. Her smile is too bright, her cheerfulness grating against my raw nerves. “You must be Aurora Henry. We’re so excited to have you here!”

“Sure thing,” I say, plastering on a fake grin as I follow her deeper into the shop. My broken past may haunt me, but I won’t let it stop me from living my dream.

“Here’s your table,” she says, gesturing to a small setup near the back. A stack of my books sits neatly on the table, looking so innocent and untouched. If only they knew the horrors that lurked between those pages were, in fact, true stories.

“Thank you,” I mutter, taking my seat and trying to push away the ghosts of my past.

“Alright, everyone, please welcome Aurora Henry!” announces the store manager, and I brace myself for the onslaught of questions, the probing eyes, and the inevitable judgement.

“Let’s do this,” I whisper, steeling my resolve as I meet the gaze of the first person in line. The darkness inside me may be a part of who I am, but it doesn’t define me. I’m stronger than that. I’ve survived, and I’ll keep surviving, no matter what life throws my way.

“Hi, I’m Aurora. Nice to meet you.”

I’m sitting there, scrawling my name across the title page of yet another book, and I can’t help but think that, fuck, this is exhausting. Smiling like some goddamn Stepford wife, I feel the ache in my cheeks from hours of faking it.

“Thank you so much, Aurora,” some woman gushes as she clutches her newly signed copy to her chest. “I love your work!”

“Thanks,” I mutter, forcing a smile. “Thanks for coming,” I say as if we’re old fucking friends or something.

After what feels like an eternity, the last eager reader finally straggles away, their footsteps echoing through the now-empty bookshop. The walls seem to close in on me as I gather up my belongings, eager to escape this claustrophobic hellhole. The overwhelming presence of people and crowds has been too much for me to handle for years, the constant chatter and noise setting my nerves on edge. My heart races and palms sweat as I hurry towards the door, desperate for some fresh air.

Finally, I slip out into the balmy Sydney night, relieved to be free from the suffocating atmosphere inside and head towards the hotel.

As I approach the hotel, I notice the sexy blond-haired doorman waiting to greet me. His eyes linger on the tattoos that snake up my arms, remnants of a life I’d rather forget. But hey, he’s not bad to look at—a nice distraction from the endless parade of adoring fans.

“Evening,” he says with a smirk, holding open the door for me.

“Hey,” I reply, nodding my head in acknowledgement. Yum, it’s a pity he is so young.

The lift ride up to my room feels like an eternity, and I’m reminded of how much I fucking hate travelling. As soon as the door slides open, I make a beeline for my room, tossing my bag on the bed.

“Room service?” I mumble into the phone after dialling the front desk. “Yeah, I’ll take a burger and fries. And a bottle of tequila.”

Hanging up, I strip off the layers of constricting clothes, tossing them carelessly on the floor. Sliding between the cool sheets, I let out a sigh of relief—finally, some fucking peace and quiet.

As I lay there, waiting for my food to arrive, I can’t help but feel the weight of the day bearing down on me. The faces of those eager fans and the whispered words of praise all feel like a cruel joke. If they knew the real Aurora Henry, the woman behind the carefully crafted persona, would they still be so enamoured? Or would they recoil in horror, desperate to erase the grisly images from their minds?

Would they ever realise the people in my books are real, and the horrific events I wrote about happened to me?

Chapter Two

Aurora Henry

The 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!

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