She stood across the street, a cold knot tightening low in her belly. Her reflection in a rain-slicked window was a ghost-hunched, shivering, pathetic. A figure the city was in the process of washing away. Still, a flicker of something stubborn and foolish warmed her. Three years. Their third anniversary. Tonight, maybe something would be different.
She took a breath that did nothing to slow the frantic drumming in her chest and darted across the street, her heels skidding on the wet pavement.
The club’s interior was a shock of warmth that smelled of expensive perfume, leather, and old money. A doorman had allowed her entry after she’d mumbled Damian’s name, but now a hostess with a severe haircut was dissecting her with a look. The woman’s gaze slid over Aurora’s jacket, lingered on her scar, and a flicker of disdain crossed her face. It was an expression Aurora knew intimately. She hunched her shoulders, a reflex she hated.
