Chapter 6 The Run In

Four Years Later

Aurora:

The newsroom buzzes like a storm contained in glass. Phones ring, printers hum, and Warren’s voice cuts through the noise with the precision of someone who has lived on caffeine and deadlines for thirty years.

“Aurora, you are on the Michelsen file... again,” he says, tossing a folder onto my desk. “Follow the new leads, connect the accounts, find out why Kingston Industries is listed under the same offshore trail.”

The name hits me like a chord out of tune.

Kingston.

I keep my face neutral, eyes on the paper, as if the word is nothing more than another entry on a spreadsheet. Warren keeps talking, his tone clipped, already thinking about the next crisis.

“There is a press conference tomorrow morning. New partnerships, new donors, the usual rich man theater. You will go, ask the hard questions, and try not to scare their PR team this time.”

“That depends on whether they lie to me,” I reply.

He grins, the faintest sign of approval. “That is why I send you, kid.”

When he leaves, I stare at the folder as if it might open itself. Kingston Industries, the black card from years ago, the man whose voice still curls through my dreams like smoke. The name feels like a bruise I stopped pressing long ago.

I close the file before Maggie can look over. She still works across from me, still wears chaos like perfume, still notices everything.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I lie. “Just another assignment.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If fine means you just turned the color of printer paper, sure.”

I shove the folder into my bag. “Drop it, Mags.”

She studies me for a moment, but she lets it go, humming under her breath as she returns to editing a photo spread.

By the next morning, I have convinced myself it will mean nothing. Just a room full of journalists and men in expensive suits. He will not even notice me. The universe does not play reruns.

The conference hall is marble and gold, the kind of place built to make everyone feel smaller. The Kingston Industries logo glows across the stage backdrop, sharp, modern, perfect.

Cameras flash, microphones hum. I move through the crowd like a ghost, clipboard in hand, badge clipped tight.

Then he walks in.

Levi Kingston.

The air changes.

The conversation around me dulls to a hum, and for a split second, the world narrows to the shape of him. The tailored suit, the controlled gait, the same eyes that once looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him sane.

His hair is shorter now, his shoulders broader, and his expression unreadable. He speaks to his assistant, voice calm, low, dangerous in its steadiness.

I tell myself to breathe. To remember I am not that girl anymore.

When he looks up, our eyes meet across the crowd.

Everything stops.

The noise, the movement, even the air feels suspended between us. The mark beneath my collarbone stirs, a slow, sharp pulse that steals my breath. I turn away before he can read it in my face.

“Ms. Anderson,” the PR manager greets, oblivious. “Pleasure having you here. We will begin shortly.”

“Thank you,” I say, voice steady. My hands are not.

He takes the stage, every inch the controlled executive. Cameras click, lights flash, and his voice fills the room.

The timbre is deeper now, but it still carries that pull, the quiet authority that makes people listen before they understand why.

I hate that I still feel it.

He talks about sustainability, global partnerships, the company’s commitment to ethical investment. I hear the words but none of them land. My mind runs on a loop: the night he left, the scent of his skin, the burn of his rejection.

When the Q and A begins, my hand lifts before I can stop it.

“Aurora Anderson, Seattle Chronicle,” I say. The microphone in my hand feels heavier than truth.

"Can you confirm whether Kingston Industries has provided financial backing to any of Senator Michelsen’s recent offshore projects?”

The room stills.

Levi’s eyes find mine again. Something flickers in them, brief but unmistakable. Recognition. Shock. And then restraint.

He smiles, the kind of smile made for headlines. “Kingston Industries has no involvement in any illegal activity. Our records are open to review, Ms. Anderson.”

My chest tightens at the sound of my name in his mouth. “So you deny any partnership with his family’s foundation?”

“Entirely,” he says. “Though I appreciate your dedication to creative journalism.”

The jab is mild, but the heat in his tone is not. I see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand flexes against the lectern. The wolf is there, barely leashed.

“Just making sure the public hears it directly from you,” I answer, pen scratching notes that are only half real.

He leans forward slightly, and for a moment no one exists. “The public always hears what you want them to, don’t they, Aurora?”

My breath catches. The use of my first name in that voice is a strike, intimate and accusing all at once. The mark on my skin flares again, gold beneath my blouse.

I lower the mic before I say something I will regret. “Interview concluded.”

The press murmurs, confused, but I am already walking out. The cool air outside hits like a slap. My pulse is unsteady, my hands trembling.

He is still inside, but I can feel him following. That invisible pull hums again, louder now, dragging at the part of me that still remembers his touch.

“Aurora,” his voice comes from behind me. I do not turn. The sound alone is enough to make my heartbeat stumble.

“Don't,” I say. “Not here...not ever.”

He catches up, steps in front of me, eyes burning with something between regret and need. “You should not have come.”

“Believe me,” I snap, “If I had known the assignment led to your empire, I would have burned the map.”

He exhales slowly, fighting for control. “It was not supposed to be this way.”

“No,” I say quietly. “It was supposed to end four years ago. You made sure of that.”

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The bond hums like static, pulling, clawing. He looks like a man standing in a fire and refusing to step back.

“Aurora,” he says again, softer now. “You do not understand what I was protecting you from.”

“I do not need your protection,” I whisper. “I needed the truth.”

Something in his eyes cracks. For a moment he almost reaches for me, and I hate that a part of me still wants him to.

“Stay out of this story,” he warns, but it sounds more like a plea.

“Too late,” I reply, brushing past him.

The scent of him lingers.

When I reach the car, my hands are still shaking. I grip the wheel until my knuckles ache, glancing back.

Levi Kingston, the man who left me broken, is alive, powerful, and lying again.

But this time, I am not the same woman he rejected.

This time, I will make sure he remembers exactly what he threw away.