Chapter 2 Broken Wings

Ixora hadn't gone far when the rain began to fall.

Cold, steady, relentless.

People scattered - some with umbrellas, some running for cover.

She could only stand there, drenched and alone.

I forgot to check the weather...

Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since morning. For the past three years, Jayden was the one who'd show up with simple, cheap chocolates or warm meals.

Now, even his memory stung like a blade.

The longer she stood there, the more the pain swelled inside her chest.

Two hours and thirteen minutes passed before the rain slowed to a drizzle.

Her phone - soaked through. She hadn't even tried to shield it.

It was the same phone Jayden had bought her for her birthday last year.

Her hand trembled as she stared at it... then, without thinking, she hurled it away.

Everything reminds me of him.

Tears blurred her vision.

"My name is Ixora Laurent..." she whispered again and again.

A name every orphan bore, given by a faceless benefactor no one had ever met.

Isn't today my birthday?

Or just a cruel dream pretending to be one?

She pinched herself.

It hurt.

Diana was working a night shift.

Rita was probably still at the dessert shop.

Her long-held dream of seeing her face on a billboard?

Gone.

She remembered how even getting part-time jobs had been impossible. Too pretty, too tempting. People saw her as a threat to their relationships. One time, a restaurant customer even tried to assault her.

Jayden had saved her back then. Paid her tuition.

And now, there was no one left to call.

She walked aimlessly, the city lights blurring in the downpour.

Her entire life packed into a soaked backpack and a pocketful of loose change.

By the time she checked the time, it was 5:34 PM.

Crest Dessert & Coffee Shop

Rita was wiping down tables.

"Oh, hey - you made it. Latte or Americano?" she called without looking.

"Got anything stronger?" Ixora asked quietly.

"It's your birthday, babe. Hold on, give me a few minutes, I'll be done."

Rita still hadn't looked at her properly.

"Can I use the extra room?"

"Trouble at rehearsal again? Or did Mrs. Elisha pile on more routines?"

Ixora opened her mouth, but Rita grinned and kept going.

"And what did Jayden get you this time? Wait - don't tell me... a proposal ring?"

A tear slid down Ixora's cheek.

"I'll be off now," she whispered and turned away.

40 minutes later.

Diana arrived with their usual 3% alcohol drink.

Rita brightened.

"Where's the birthday girl?"

"Probably practicing. She must've gotten the lead role this year."

"Did she seem okay to you?" Diana asked.

"Why? She was with Jayden this morning." Rita shrugged.

Diana hesitated.

"I'll call her."

A few minutes later, Diana returned alone.

"Music's too loud. She's probably avoiding calls."

Rita frowned.

"Okay, what's going on?"

Diana sighed.

And then she told her everything.

From Jayden's betrayal.

To the academy's cruel scheme.

Rita exploded.

"I'll kill that bastard!" she shouted, grabbing a kitchen spoon.

"Stop, Rita. Her phone's dead. Do you see her bag?"

Rita pointed to a chair.

Diana picked it up.

It was soaked and empty.

"She was out in the rain?"

"She wouldn't. You know she runs a fever if she gets wet."

Rita's voice cracked.

"And she's supposed to perform in two days."

They waited.

Diana eventually left for work, leaving behind a simple gift: a bag Ixora had admired for months.

By 9 PM, the noodles Rita made for her birthday sat cold and swollen.

As she dumped it out, the door creaked open.

Ixora stood there.

Drenched.

Broken.

Silent.

Rita ran over, wrapping her in an embrace.

"Cry, babe. Let it out."

Ixora broke down in her arms.

"Why...?" she sobbed.

"You'll be fine without him," Rita whispered.

Between sobs, Ixora told her everything.

Rita listened, heart aching.

Then she reached for a flyer.

"Here. I was gonna trash this, but... it's an audition. One of our customers left it behind."

Ixora blinked through tears.

"Audition...?"

"Yeah. It's for a dance film about an orphan heiress who lost her sight but kept dancing. They need extras for the dance sequences. It's called Black Swan. Pays 10,000 bucks."

Ixora's eyes widened.

"You serious?"

"Dead serious. Guess it's fate." Rita smiled softly.

Ixora pulled her into a tight hug.

"Thank you."

Rita handed her an old button phone.

"Use this. My old SIM's still in it."

Late night.

Ixora made her way home.

Empty streets.

Dark alleys.

She gripped her stun gun.

Almost there.

A hand suddenly grabbed her ankle.

She screamed, kicking frantically.

A weak groan escaped from the figure clutching her leg.

Then - voices.

"Check over there!"

Seriously? Now?

Thinking fast, she dragged the stranger under a discarded rain tarp, covering them both.

Heavy footsteps passed.

After a while, silence.

Ixora sighed in relief and turned on the tiny light on her phone.

Blood streaked the man's face. A deep gash on his temple.

Still breathing.

Somehow, she managed to drag him into her apartment, locking the door behind them.

"Water..." the man croaked.

Not asking. Ordering.

She fetched some quickly, lifting his head into her lap.

As soon as his eyes fluttered open, his hand shot up and grabbed her throat.

Ixora gasped, coughing, gesturing frantically.

Her fingers closed around a vase nearby, and she smashed it against his head.

He collapsed.

"What the hell was that...?" she muttered.

The cold wind slipped through the cracked windows of Ixora's small apartment. She lay sprawled across the floor, exhaustion weighing down her delicate frame. The stranger's faint, shallow breathing was the only other sound in the room, mingling with the steady tick of the old wall clock.

At exactly 3:00 AM, the man stirred.

His eyelids fluttered open, revealing sharp, dark eyes filled with guarded hostility. A dull throb pulsed in his temple as his fingers instinctively reached up to touch the bandage around his head. The room was unfamiliar, dimly lit by a flickering bulb overhead. The faint scent of rain lingered in the air.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing as pain shot through his skull. His hand went to his pocket, pulling out a sleek black phone. One press of a button and the device lit up.

"Send someone to my location," he ordered coldly into the receiver, his voice low, rough, and commanding.

Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.

His gaze landed on the figure huddled on the floor a short distance away. In the soft, uneven light, her face seemed fragile, almost ethereal. Strands of damp hair clung to her cheek. Even in sleep, her expression was a mixture of grief and exhaustion - the kind that spoke of battles fought in silence.

The man frowned. He wasn't one for sentimentality. Blood and business were the only languages he spoke. And yet, something about this girl made him pause. He didn't even realize he'd raised his phone until the soft click of the shutter filled the room. A photo, a keepsake - though he'd never been the type.

Nico wasn't a man who kept mementos. Or cared for strangers.

And yet she find her Alluring

As he lowered the phone, his sharp eyes swept the room. Sparse, worn furniture, a cracked mirror, peeling wallpaper. The place spoke of poverty and struggle. He noticed a faded ballet poster tacked to one wall - a Swan Princess performance, the edges curled and yellowing. Beneath it, a bag hastily packed lay half-open, a pair of worn ballet shoes peeking out.

The room's single window was partially open, letting in the chill of early morning rain. A faint metallic scent lingered in the air, remnants of his own blood and the storm outside.

He heard it then - the faintest hitch in her breath. A restless shift in sleep. He should leave. His men would arrive any minute, and it was safer for both of them if she remained uninvolved. Yet his feet refused to move.

He crouched beside her, studied the delicate lines of her face. There was no recognition in his mind - she was a stranger, another nameless face in a city teeming with them. But something about the tear tracks on her cheek struck a chord.

Pathetic, he told himself. You've gone soft.

A sharp knock sounded at the door - two precise taps. His men.

He straightened, pulling a thick wad of cash from his inner jacket pocket, tucking it beneath the half-finished first aid kit she'd left nearby. No names. No favors owed.

"I'll repay this debt," he muttered, voice like gravel.

Without another glance, he moved to the door. As it opened, two men in dark coats stepped inside, eyes sweeping the apartment with swift efficiency.

"Clean exit. No witnesses," one murmured.

"No," Nico snapped. "Leave her."

The men exchanged a look but obeyed. With that, Nico slipped into the night, his silhouette vanishing down the stairwell.

4:23 AM

Ixora awoke to silence.

Her throat felt dry, her head heavy. For a moment, she didn't remember where she was or what had happened. Then the events of the night flooded back.

The rain. The alley. The man. His blood.

She scrambled up, heart pounding, eyes darting to the spot where she'd laid him down. Empty. Only the bloodstained towel and bandages remained.

A thick envelope lay atop the first aid kit. Confused, she picked it up. Inside were crisp bills - far more than she'd ever seen in one place.

A simple note was attached, written in neat, sharp handwriting:

For medical fees. Forget you ever saw me.

No name. No number.

Her stomach twisted. She should feel relieved. Instead, an odd hollowness spread through her.

"Who... was he?" she whispered to the empty room.

She set the money aside, not daring to touch it again just yet. Her gaze drifted to the window where dawn's first light painted the clouds in hues of pink and grey.

Somewhere out there, the world was moving on. And so would she.

Wiping her face, Ixora pushed to her feet. She grabbed Rita's old button phone and checked for missed calls. One from Rita.