"Yes, Alex, I am aware…" I say, rolling my eyes playfully as my brother's voice continues through the phone, listing precautions we've already gone over a dozen times. I absently trace the outline of a floral motif on my sketchpad with a charcoal pencil. "Everything is going exactly according to plan so far, and I fully intend to keep it that way."
Alexander's voice is a warm, worried rumble on the other end. "Just promise me you'll be careful. He's not a man to underestimate."
I let out a soft sigh, my gaze drifting to the sunlit New York skyline outside my office window. "You are worrying too much, Alex. I'll ring you the very first second if anything goes even slightly off-plan." He concedes, saying he knows I can handle myself, but that his big-brother mode can't help but activate every time, especially since I'm an ocean away from him. Alex is back in Santorini, the beautiful white-washed island that has been my second home for the last five years.
We say our goodbyes and I end the call, setting my phone aside. I quickly check my inbox, scrolling for any new emails, when a flash of bright pink catches my eye. I look up to see Barbara Gills, the head of PR, making a beeline for my work area. Her large, square-framed glasses are a statement, and her smile is the perfectly polished one she reserves for the workplace.
"Vanessa! How is everything going so far?" she asks, her eyes flicking down to the open sketchpad on my pristine white desk.
"Pretty well, all things considered," I reply, offering a warm smile. "The initial designs for the Winter Couture collection are moving into the sampling process. The atelier has the first set of patterns."
She bobs her head, listening intently. "Good, good. Because the Winter Couture show is just a month away! We are really tight on time, and since you are going to be the lead designer this time, all eyes are on you. We're all depending on you, darling."
"Thank you for the motivation, Barbara," I joke, and she lets out a light, tinkling laugh.
"Anytime!"
It's only my second day officially working within the hallowed halls of Aethelred House, and so far, everyone has been exceedingly nice to me. Of course, it helps that I'm the designer the legendary Director Dahlia Johansson herself pursued with an exclusive invitation. Their admiration is for my reputation, not yet for me.
Barbara glances around my spacious, still-sparse office. "Where is your assistant? I thought HR had someone lined up for you."
"I don't have one," I say simply.
She gasps dramatically, a hand flying to her chest. "Oh, dear! Why on earth not?"
I give a casual shrug. "I suppose I just like working alone. Fewer distractions." It's only half the truth, but it's the part she needs to hear.
Barbara looks at me as if I've just declared I prefer to hand-stitch every garment myself. "Alright, well," she says, slightly flustered. "You keep doing your job, and I'll head back to mine." With a final, confused smile, she saunters away, her high heels clicking softly on the polished concrete floor.
The moment the glass door of my office swings shut and she's out of sight, my pleasant expression settles into one of focused intensity. My fingers fly across the keyboard, and with a few quick clicks, I pull up a hidden taskbar on my desktop. A grid of four live video feeds replaces my design software, showing different angles of a lavishly decorated living room and study.
It's the CCTV feed from Ethan Croft's house.
I lean closer, my eyes scanning the screens. I had installed the tiny, advanced cameras a week ago, during a brief window when the house was empty. It was almost too easy; a fake gas leak complaint from a "concerned neighbor" was all it took to lure the housekeepers out for the afternoon. Slipping inside and placing the cameras took me less than half an hour. I know that house from heart, every hallway and blind spot. After all, it was once my home, too.
My eyes scan the four live feeds on my screen. The master bedroom is empty, the bed neatly made. The grand living room, with its cold, minimalist furniture, is still. Ethan isn't there. His parents are safely away on their vacation to the Maldives, and Agnes… that mistress… is nowhere to be seen. Of course, she isn't. She's probably glued to his side, a permanent accessory. He must have left for the office; just ten minutes ago, I watched his blurry figure pace past the camera in his study.
It's been three days since the fashion show. Three days since I stepped out of the shadows and haunted him. A thrill, sharp and cold, runs through me. Is he still on edge? Is he jumping at shadows, his mind replaying that moment in the dark over and over? The thought of him, so powerful and smug, being utterly terrified by the ghost of his dead wife… it makes the wait almost sweet.
But patience is a discipline. Today, he will see me again. And this time, I will make sure the encounter traumatizes him for a week. I have plans for Agnes, too. Sweet, delicate plans that will unravel her perfectly curated world.
A part of me wants to end this quickly—to slam the final door shut. But the larger, angrier part demands more. They can't just end. They need to feel the exact, excruciating pain they inflicted on me and my parents. They need to drown in it.
A familiar, dark memory tries to surface—the smell of smoke, the cold rain, the crushing helplessness of that day five years ago. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, a physical rejection of the images. Not now. I can't afford to fall into that abyss right now.
Instead, I turn back to my desk, to the half-finished sketch of a gown. I pick up my pencil, my movements becoming swift and precise. I lose myself in the work, in the swirl of silk and tulle on paper. I need to get this done quickly.
Because in exactly four hours, I have a meeting with Ethan. And the ghost is ready to haunt him once more.
~
Getting inside Crofts Textiles International isn't easy, but for me, it's far from impossible. Since I can't very well walk in with my own face, I've had to become someone else. The people here, the old guards, they know the story of Daphne Ashford. They think they know she's dead.
I push through the heavy, carved oak doors, my heels sinking into the plush, wine-colored carpet of the lobby. The building is not new but not old enough to be said as old money, a stately five-story structure of sandstone and glass, more like a grand private club than a cold steel tower. I catch my reflection in the brass of the elevator doors and see a woman with sharp, black-framed sunglasses and a chic, shoulder-length blonde bob. A complete stranger.
Behind a long, curved desk, I see five receptionists. Five. It seems Ethan has developed a taste for unnecessary displays of power. I approach the first one.
"Hello, ma'am. How may I help you?" she asks, her smile professionally bright.
"I have a meeting with the CEO at 10:30," I say, my voice clipped as I push my sunglasses up to rest on top of my wig. The synthetic hair feels foreign against my scalp.
"Let me check, just give me a minute, ma'am."
I give a curt nod, and she scrolls through a digital ledger, finding the name I knew she would- Beatrice Diaz. For today, I am Beatrice Diaz. The real one is currently stranded at JFK, her phone conveniently "lost" after a minor but chaotic spill of a coffee, her wallet and identification temporarily misplaced in the ensuing confusion. I was the one to plan it all before coming to his company. It was almost too easy to get his schedule and see who was on it. I've kept a digital leash on him for years, even from the sunny cliffs of Santorini.
The receptionist looks up, her smile still in place. "Miss Diaz, please wait one moment while I inform Mr. Croft's office you're here."
I let out an impatient sigh, tapping a manicured nail on the counter. "Please do be quick. My schedule is packed." I don't know Beatrice personally, but my research tells me that she's notoriously picky and values her own time above all else.
A moment later, the receptionist hangs up. "You may go up now. I can guide you to the CEO's office."
"It's really not necessary," I start, but she's already coming around the desk. I bite back my frustration. I can't tell her I know the way better than she does. That I used to walk these halls, bringing a lovingly prepared lunch to my then-husband aka scumbag in a foolish display of devotion. The memory makes my skin crawl.
Five minutes later, the elevator dings softly on the thirteenth floor. We step out into a hallway lined with archival photos of the company's history. She gestures to the right. "It's just down this hall, the double doors at the end."
"I can manage from here. Thank you," I say impatiently.
She obliges with a slight nod and retreats toward the elevator. I wait, listening to the faint whir of its descent. The moment the sound fades, I don't turn right. I turn left.
My plan isn't to confront him face-to-face again. Not yet. That would be too direct, too easily dismissed as another hallucination. No, this is about subtlety. This is about getting inside his head without him even knowing I was there.
I walk with purpose, my destination is not his office, but the small, elegant executive lounge a few doors down. I know it's stocked with a private coffee bar and a vintage whiskey decanter set he received as a wedding gift—our wedding gift. My fingers tucked inside my blazer pocket brush against the small, delicate vial. It contains a concentrated tincture of a specific, rare orchid extract. Odorless, colorless, and utterly harmless in the long term, its immediate effect is a powerful psychoactive trigger for paranoia and intense auditory hallucinations.
My goal is simple- to slip a few drops into the water carafe he keeps on his desk. When he takes a drink later, the world around him will slowly begin to warp. He won't collapse or convulse. No, the effect is far more elegant, far more cruel. It will feel like his own mind is betraying him.