Rebirth: A Second chance at life
Chapter 115: Let’s get you to a doctor!

Chapter 115: Let’s get you to a doctor!

Aurora—no, Luna—closed her eyes for a brief moment, feeling the crushing weight of the past few years settle heavily on her chest.

When she had first woken up in this body months ago, she chose to let Alexander go.

Not because he deserved forgiveness—but because the lingering fragments of Aurora’s soft heart still clung to him, loving him in silence, forgiving him even through the pain.

Luna had respected that sentiment—Aurora’s lingering emotions—otherwise.

No one in the world would have dared to humiliate her the way Alexander did when she first woke up in this body.

Had it been anyone else, they would have been crushed under her heel long ago.

She had held back—not for Alexander’s sake—but also for Senior Brown, the only one who had shown Aurora even a sliver of compassion, shielding her like a granddaughter when no one else did.

But now?

That kindness had a price.

Aurora paid it with her life.

And Luna... Luna would collect.

Back in her mansion, she poured herself a glass of water. Every abuse, every lash, every cruel word that Aurora had endured played in her mind like a relentless reel.

The nights she cried herself to sleep. The way she still cooked food at 3 AM for Alexander just to soothe his stomach...

Only to be replaced. Ignored. Humiliated. Beaten—and in the end, choked to death.

Her fingers clenched the glass tightly. A crack formed, splintering across the surface before it shattered in her palm.

Blood dripped from her hand.

She didn’t even flinch.

The moonlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a silver sheen across the room.

Aurora sat by the window, legs curled up on the cushioned seat, her figure outlined by the soft glow of the ocean in the distance.

Waves crashed faintly in the background, yet inside, it was silent—too silent.

Her gaze was distant, blank, yet brimming with a storm of memories. Some hers. Some not.

Her lips curled into a bitter smile.

"I saved countless lives from being destroyed... but the one I was meant to save—was killed."

The tremor in her voice was swallowed by the click of a lighter.

She lit a cigar, holding it delicately between her fingers as she exhaled a thin stream of smoke. It drifted upward, curling around her like the ghosts of her past.

She didn’t notice the blood on her hand. Didn’t feel the sting. Or maybe she did—but the pain inside her drowned everything else.

Suddenly, a soft movement stirred beside her. She blinked, slowly turning her head.

Sebastian was crouched at her side, his brows furrowed in concern. He gently took her hand, his touch warm, grounding.

She looked down. The gash on her palm had dried, crusted with blood. She hadn’t even realized.

He said nothing as he carefully opened the first aid box and began to clean the wound. The sting of antiseptic brought her a sliver of clarity, but she didn’t resist.

Hours earlier, Sebastian had been waiting. Dressed immaculately, he’d paced by his car, phone in hand, eyes fixed on the time.

When she didn’t call, he tried ringing her. Once. Twice. Then six times more. Each time, the call went unanswered.

A tight knot formed in his chest. He tried to brush it off, to reason that maybe she had gotten busy.

But when he drove to the villa and saw her car parked unattended, a wave of relief washed over him—at least she was home.

He waited in his car for a while, eyes fixed on the front door, thinking she might emerge at any moment.

He called her once, then again. No answer. The screen lit up with unanswered calls, but silence was all that greeted him.

A faint crease formed between his brows as he stared at the phone, unease beginning to stir quietly in his chest. Was she alright? Something felt... off.

But as time ticked on and the windows remained dark, he couldn’t take it anymore. He rang the bell.

Margaret opened the door, momentarily surprised to see him standing there at that hour. "Mr. Harper?" she asked, puzzled.

"Where is Ms. Smith?" Sebastian asked immediately, his voice taut with urgency.

Margaret, noticing the anxiety in his eyes and the way he seemed barely able to stand still, replied,

"She’s in her room," her tone shifting, concern now edging her voice. Something didn’t feel right.

He didn’t wait for permission. He took the stairs two at a time, each step heavier than the last.

At her door, he knocked gently and waited. Silence.

He waited for a couple of minutes outside her room, each second stretching endlessly.

The silence behind the door was deafening. His heart thundered with a strange mix of dread and fear.

Unable to bear the stillness any longer, he reached for the handle—and opened the door.

And then he saw her—seated like a lifeless doll, bathed in moonlight, eyes dull, a trail of blood darkening the floor beneath her.

Panic surged. "Aurora!" he called out—but she didn’t respond.

He rushed to her side, kneeling beside her with alarm clouding his features.

His breath caught when he saw the blood on her hand, crimson streaks smeared along her pale skin.

Tiny shards of glass were still embedded in the wound, glinting faintly under the moonlight that filtered through the window.

Dried smudges stained her cheek—perhaps blood, perhaps tears. His chest tightened.

What had happened here? Gently, he reached out, afraid to startle her, but more afraid of what would happen if he didn’t.

She was breathing—but barely present. He didn’t press for answers.

He simply began treating her wounds, his hands steady even though his chest was anything but.

Every movement was careful, almost reverent, as if tending to something fragile he couldn’t afford to break.

He meticulously separated the tiny shards of glass from her skin, wincing each time he saw her flinch, even if only slightly.

With a soft cloth, he wiped the dried blood from her hand, the crimson smears slowly fading under his touch.

The silence between them was heavy, but he didn’t break it—his focus was entirely on her, as though in that moment, healing her mattered more than anything else in the world.

After a few moments, she blinked. Recognition flickered in her eyes.

"When did you get here, Mr. Harper?" Her voice was low, cool, almost foreign. So unlike her usual composed strength.

"I was calling you," he replied gently, "but you didn’t pick up. I was worried something had happened.

"I didn’t know Ms. Smith had suicidal tendencies," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm—bitter and heavy, like frustration wrapped in fear.

It wasn’t a joke. Not really. It was his way of masking the storm beneath his composed exterior.

His hands continued to work with gentle precision, but his eyes betrayed the anguish he was trying to suppress.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke, afraid that if he did, he might lose the tight grip he had on his own emotions.

Aurora glanced at her hand as if noticing it for the first time. "I didn’t notice." Her tone was detached, but she didn’t pull away.

"Let’s get you to the doctor," Sebastian said, urgency in his tone as he hurried to get up.

But Aurora let out a soft chuckle, her voice calm and distant. "Mr. Harper, you seem to forget—I am a doctor myself.

These are just minor cuts. I’ll apply ointments. They’ll be treated in no time. Don’t worry."

Sebastian paused, studying her with a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

She sounded so composed, almost detached, as if the pain was nothing—both the physical and the emotional.

After a beat, he slowly crouched down again, silently accepting her refusal.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t speak.