Too Late, Mr. Ex: I'm Free

Aurora POV:

I sat up slowly, the thin hospital blanket falling to my waist.

My eyes drifted to the thick file Ethan had just thrown onto the nightstand. The title on the first page caught my attention immediately. It was a deed of gift for a penthouse on the Upper East Side, worth tens of millions of dollars.

Ethan always did this. He measured the depth of his guilt with expensive real estate.

"This is to compensate you for the... accident," Ethan said, his voice tight.

He deliberately emphasized the word *accident*. It wasn't an apology. It was a warning. He was telling me to accept the official story.

A wave of sickening laughter bubbled up in my chest, cold and acidic.

If this were yesterday, the old Aurora would have grabbed those papers, ripped them into a hundred pieces, and thrown them right into his arrogant face. I would have screamed that my baby's life couldn't be bought.

But the old Aurora died in that stairwell.

I reached out my pale, trembling hand.

I picked up the heavy Montblanc pen resting beside the file and pulled the cap off.

Ethan’s eyes flickered with shock. His jaw tightened. He had clearly braced himself for a fight, for tears, for me to demand justice.

I didn't even look at him. I flipped straight to the final page of the contract.

Without a single second of hesitation, I signed my name.

The sharp scratching sound of the metal pen tip against the thick paper echoed loudly in the dead silence of the hospital room.

I put the cap back on the pen and pushed the signed file back toward him. My movements were gentle, but entirely detached.

Ethan took the file. His brow furrowed deeply. He looked like a man who had just thrown a heavy punch and hit nothing but empty air. It frustrated him.

He stared at my face, searching my eyes for any sign of grievance, anger, or sorrow. He found absolutely nothing. Just a hollow void.

He masked his annoyance quickly, his face returning to its usual cold mask.

"Rest well," he said curtly.

He turned on his heel and walked out.

The second the door clicked shut, the submissive, quiet mask melted off my face.

I reached under my pillow and pulled out my phone. I opened my encrypted email app.

I snapped a high-resolution photo of the signature page of the deed and attached it to a new message. I typed in the address of a notorious off-market real estate broker in New York's underground.

*Thirty percent below market value,* I typed. *All cash. Must be routed through my offshore accounts within three days.*

I hit send.

My phone buzzed ten seconds later. The broker replied, expressing shock at the massive discount, but promised to get it done immediately.

I logged into my offshore banking app. The balance was completely empty.

I stared at the zero on the screen. I knew that very soon, this account would hold the first pile of cash I needed to escape this golden cage.

I looked down at my hand. The IV needle was taped to the back of my vein.

I grabbed the plastic tube and ripped the needle out.

A stream of dark red blood spilled over my pale skin. I didn't feel the pain. I didn't care.

I pressed a cotton swab against the wound and walked barefoot to the window.

Down below, Ethan’s convoy of black armored SUVs was slowly pulling out of the hospital gates, cutting through the rain.

I watched them disappear into the city traffic. I tossed the bloody cotton swab perfectly into the trash can.

Suddenly, the sharp, rapid clicking of stiletto heels echoed in the hallway outside.

The door to my room was shoved open violently. It slammed against the wall.

Ilene stood in the doorway, wrapped in a luxurious designer trench coat, her chin held high.

She smirked at me, her eyes gleaming with malice. "I heard Ethan gave you a house?"