Chapter 4
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Aurora approached with a basin of clear water that reflected her tired yet focused face.
His dark green pupils contracted slightly as his vision transformed from blurry patches to unprecedented clarity.
He saw genuine concern deep in her eyes.
Pure concern, without impurity—devoid of the haughtiness and impatience so characteristic of Seraphina.
"Are you awake?"
Her voice reached him, gentle as a feather brushing his heart.
In his memory, Seraphina's tone always carried a sharp edge—even her concern sounded like an ice-tempered command.
Aurora set down the basin, wrung out the towel, and gently wiped sweat from his temple.
For the first time, her fingers—soft and delicate—slid across his skin.
Damian's breath caught.
Women who regularly train in combat and handle firearms develop calluses.
Seraphina had them.
But the hand before him was smooth as warm jade, bearing no trace of such training.
He remained still, allowing her ministrations while his gaze fixed on her face, searching for flaws in features identical to Seraphina's.
...
In the manor's dining room, the aroma of charcoal-grilled tomahawk steak filled the air, fat dripping onto the sizzling stone plate with a gentle hiss.
Damian cut a piece of meat and chewed slowly. Tender and perfectly cooked—just as he preferred.
Everything was too perfect.
So perfect it seemed like a lie.
Damian swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing once as he spoke with feigned casualness.
"I remember two years ago in Paris, taking a knife for you to deal with that troublesome suitor."
His voice remained calm, betraying nothing, but his dark green eyes—deep as forest pools—locked onto her face.
Aurora's hand, arranging the dinner plate, paused almost imperceptibly.
*Here it comes.*
This was a "shared memory" documented in her files.
She raised her head, struggling to keep her expression natural.
"Yes, he was completely unhinged. Your wound was deep, but thankfully missed anything vital."
Her answer matched the file description flawlessly.
But Damian's pupils darkened.
She wasn't lying.
But she'd omitted one crucial detail.
That day, Seraphina had missed her favorite fashion show because of the incident and had been furious, showing no concern for his injury.
The woman's answer was like a memorized response—technically perfect but soulless.
Suspicion, like a thorny vine, began growing from the depths of his heart.
Days later, Damian used his recovery as pretext to summon all core Frost Family members for a grand dinner at the mansion.
As word spread, the mansion erupted into solemn activity.
When Aurora received the notification, she was stunned.
She spent the entire night reviewing materials about the Frost Family, memorizing every core member's preferences and relationships until she knew them cold.
On the evening of the banquet, classical music played softly in the magnificent golden hall.
Damian sat at the head table in a custom black and gold suit, his expression stern.
Aurora, in an intricate white evening gown, walked deliberately toward the main table under everyone's scrutiny.
The banquet's etiquette was complicated and steeped in tradition.
Every gesture and toast embodied the century-old dignity of this criminal dynasty.
Aurora mimicked the movements she'd memorized, but hesitated slightly when toasting a respected grand-uncle, unfamiliar with his history.
A gray-haired elder with sharp eyes frowned, his gaze sweeping toward her.
"Miss Seraphina grew up before our very eyes. How is she so unfamiliar with family history?"
The accusatory question echoed through the hall, all eyes turning to Aurora.
Her face drained of color, cold sweat beading on her palms.
"Seraphina suffered a shock recently affecting her memory. Grand-uncle, there's no need for harshness."
Damian's indifferent voice from the head table rescued her from the situation.
Damian lowered his eyelids, concealing the cold light that flashed momentarily in his eyes.
In his heart, suspicion had clearly taken root.
After the banquet, they returned to the master bedroom.
Damian walked ahead, his tall figure casting an oppressive shadow beneath the wall sconces.
Suddenly Aurora's foot slipped, her body tipping toward an enormous floor vase.
"Ah—"
Aurora cried out, instinctively trying to dodge.
Her movements betrayed only ordinary panic—none of the agility or strength an underworld heiress would possess.
Damian smoothly caught her wrist, pulling her into his arms.
"That eager to throw yourself into my arms?"
His voice rumbled by her ear, dangerously husky.
Aurora's heart pounded wildly, completely unaware this was a test.
"Damian... thank you for catching me!"
Damian didn't respond.
In that moment, he clearly detected her scent—not the aggressive, expensive perfume Seraphina always wore.
Instead... a pure, faintly soapy scent with strangely calming properties.
This fragrance brought unprecedented peace to his restless soul.
This was definitely not Seraphina's scent.
Damian released her, the deep green of his eyes unfathomable.
He turned his back to her.
"You're tired. Get some rest."
His voice returned to its usual coldness, devoid of emotion.
Deep night.
A dark shadow crept into Damian's study like a ghost, dropping to one knee.
It was his confidant, Morpheus.
"Boss."
"Send someone to the Monroe family. Find out where their eldest daughter is now."
Damian's voice was ice-cold, devoid of warmth.
"Also, investigate everything about this woman by my side."
"Yes."
Morpheus accepted the order, then added:
"Boss, if she really is..."
"Remember, no one is to know about this. Including her."
Damian interrupted.
"As you command."
Morpheus vanished into the darkness as if he'd never been there.
Damian walked to the window, pushed it open, and cold night air rushed in.
He looked toward Aurora's room, where lights still burned.
He realized he'd grown accustomed to her gentle companionship.
He'd even begun to rely on her clean scent that soothed his pain.
Even though he knew she was fake—a complete fraud.
He was unwilling to expose her.
A contradiction and struggle he'd never before experienced tore at his heart.
If the truth was destined to emerge, how should he deal with this... impostor who had made him feel warmth for the first time?
Three months was enough for the city's coldness to thaw.
With Aurora's companionship, Damian's condition improved at a pace that astonished doctors. His vision gradually cleared, and his PTSD episodes became less frequent.
He grew increasingly dependent on her, developing possessive feelings he himself hadn't noticed. He'd bristle when she exchanged words with the handsome young gardener, and feel inexplicably irritated when she became distracted thinking about her brother.
That afternoon, Aurora carried a bowl of warm medicinal broth into the study.
Damian was buried in family documents, not looking up.
She gently placed the bowl on his desk, her fingertips accidentally brushing the back of his hand.
*Boom—*
A surging wave of heat shot through Damian's entire body from that point of contact.
Not the agitation of PTSD, but pure desire and possessiveness stemming from primal instinct.
Frenzied thoughts nearly shattered his cage of reason.
Damian clenched his fist, knuckles whitening, veins bulging like coiled serpents along his forearms.
He raised his head, a terrifying storm churning in the depths of his dark green eyes as he stared at her.
"You..."
Aurora, startled by the fierce light in his eyes, instinctively stepped back.
"I... I saw you were tired and brought you some calming herbal broth."
Damian didn't speak, only greedily inhaled her calming scent.
"Get out."
He forced the words between clenched teeth, his voice unrecognizably hoarse.
Aurora dared not question, immediately turning and fleeing the study as if pursued by a predator.
The door closed.
Damian violently swept everything from his desk to the floor.
He had to understand the pathological dependence he'd developed on this woman!
He dialed an encrypted call to the family's private physician.
"I need to know why one person's existence can affect another's emotions and physical condition so profoundly!"
The doctor remained silent for a long moment before speaking with clinical detachment: "There's a rare psychological phenomenon called 'Empathetic Dependency.' When someone suffers severe trauma and becomes extremely vulnerable both mentally and physically, they may develop dual dependency—physiological and psychological—on someone who provides extreme security. That person's voice, scent, presence... becomes their only 'painkiller.' Not supernatural—simply a physiological response to profound psychological comfort."
As the call ended, Damian leaned back and drew a deep breath.
He no longer had any reason to let her go.
