Chapter 8 Can You Stop Making a Fuss?
The tea stain spread across her white blouse, dark brown water marks creeping from collar to waist.
Aurora looked down at her clothes, then back up at Tiffany.
Tiffany covered her mouth, face full of apology. "I'm so sorry! It slipped. Let me help you clean up."
She reached for the tissues on the table, stumbled, and fell backward. Her back hit the armrest and she landed on the floor with a startled cry.
The commotion was loud.
The elevator at the end of the hallway dinged open at that exact moment.
Michael strode out, suit jacket draped over his arm, clearly having rushed over.
His eyes immediately caught Tiffany on the floor and Aurora standing motionless beside her.
Aurora hadn't expected Michael to show up. Clearly Tiffany had called him too.
Tiffany's eyes were already red, voice trembling. "I'm fine... I just wanted to talk to Aurora, maybe I said something that upset her..."
Michael crouched down to help her up, his gaze sweeping over her wrist where a small red mark showed—scraped at some point.
He turned to Aurora, brow furrowed tight. "What are you doing?"
Aurora looked at the scene, wet blouse clinging to her body, coolness seeping through, but she had no desire to explain.
"Ask her."
"I'm asking you."
"Think whatever you want."
Michael took a deep breath, voice lowering as if restraining something.
"Aurora, her health isn't good. That thing in her brain could kill her any moment. Can't you just leave her alone?"
Aurora froze for a second. She hadn't known about Tiffany's condition.
But being sick didn't give anyone the right to be unreasonable. Tiffany had provoked her first—lured her here with a fake interview, tried to buy her off with five million, then dumped tea on her before staging this fall.
But she didn't want to explain a single word to Michael.
"Fine." She nodded, the corner of her mouth even curving slightly. "It's all my fault. I wish you both a lifetime of happiness."
She turned toward the elevator. A hand caught her wrist.
Michael's grip wasn't gentle, voice heavy. "Do you have to be this difficult?"
Aurora looked back at him, gaze eerily calm.
"Difficult?" She repeated the word. "Michael, do you really think I'm the one being difficult?"
Before Michael could answer, urgent footsteps came from behind. Tiffany's assistant ran over from down the hall, voice panicked.
"Mr. Johnson, Ms. Tiffany passed out!"
Michael's face went white instantly.
He released Aurora and rushed over. Tiffany was slumped against the sofa, face ashen, eyes closed, lips bloodless, looking fragile enough to shatter.
Michael scooped her up and ran toward the elevator, not even noticing his suit jacket falling to the floor.
Passing Aurora, he didn't even glance her way.
The elevator doors closed.
Aurora stood alone in the hallway.
She remained there, the tea stain on her blouse now cold, damp and clammy against her skin.
She swallowed down whatever was rising from her chest, bent down and picked up Michael's fallen jacket.
Something slipped from the pocket.
A folded piece of paper. Opening it revealed a pencil sketch—Julia's profile.
The strokes were clumsy, lines crooked, clearly not drawn by a professional.
On the back was a line in Michael's handwriting.
Just a date.
Julia's birthday.
Aurora tucked the paper back in the jacket pocket and folded the coat neatly on the sofa.
She walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor.
Back home, she finally let herself relax.
Finally, some rest.
Around two in the morning, Aurora was jolted awake by a sour smell on the sheets.
She fumbled for the bedside lamp. Julia's little face was deathly pale, vomit at the corner of her mouth, eyes half-closed, body curled into a ball, forehead covered in sweat.
"Mommy... tummy hurts..."
Aurora snatched her up. Her hand touched Julia's forehead—burning hot.
No time to change. She grabbed a jacket to wrap around Julia, shoved her feet into shoes and ran out.
No cabs on the street at this hour. She ran with Julia in her arms until she finally flagged one down.
"Evergreen Hospital. Hurry."
The driver glanced at the child in the rearview mirror, said nothing, and floored it.
Julia threw up again in the car, just clear liquid mixed with pale yellow bile.
Aurora wiped her mouth with her sleeve, voice steady. "Julia's okay. Mommy's here."
Julia clutched her collar, fingers thin and weak.
Emergency triage, blood work—by the time they finished the whole process, dawn was breaking.
When the attending physician called Aurora into the office, his expression was grim.
"The congenital choledochal cyst we discussed before—this is the third episode. Conservative treatment only relieves symptoms. Surgery is the only cure."
Aurora gripped the lab results. "How much would the surgery cost?"
The doctor gave her a number.
Aurora said nothing.
"Any further delay increases the risk of spreading infection." The doctor looked at her. "I strongly recommend scheduling it soon."
Aurora nodded. "I understand."
She walked out of the office and leaned against the hallway wall, turning that number over and over in her mind.
There was money in Jane's account, but she couldn't touch it. Any large withdrawal, and with Michael's resources, he'd trace it straight back to Jane's real identity. Then she'd lose any chance at custody of Julia.
She closed her eyes, back of her head against the cold wall.
Her phone rang. Unknown number. She answered.
"Ms. Rivera, this is Liam, Mr. Johnson's secretary." The voice on the other end was low, as if afraid to wake someone. "Mr. Johnson drank too much at a business dinner tonight. His stomach condition flared up. He's at Evergreen Hospital VIP ward now."
Aurora frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"
Liam paused, voice awkward. "Mr. Johnson... keeps calling your name. He's in bad shape, threw up several times. Could you come see him?"
Aurora didn't answer immediately.
She glanced toward the ward. Julia was asleep with an IV drip.
Michael might be a bastard, but he was Julia's father. If his stomach was seriously wrong, whether for Julia's future child support or... some other reason she didn't want to admit, she couldn't let anything happen to him.
"Which room?"
"Twelfth floor, 1203."
Aurora hung up, asked the nurse to watch Julia, and took the elevator to the twelfth floor.
The VIP ward hallway was carpeted, lights warm and yellow, quiet as another world.
The door to 1203 was slightly ajar.
Aurora raised her hand to push it open. Her hand stopped.
