The Cloud City Mall was a temple of consumerism, a sprawling labyrinth of marble floors and glass storefronts.

It was mid-afternoon, and the luxury wing was sparsely populated. Ivy walked slowly, her heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over her face and oversized sunglasses that hid her eyes.

She wasn't hunting. She was running an errand, picking up a specific brand of imported organic milk for Albion that was only sold at one high-end grocer here.

Felix had tipped her off. Calla and Braeden were here, picking out wedding bands at Tiffany's. She had intended to avoid them, to stick to her own path, but fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As she passed the central atrium, she saw them through the open doors of the jewelry store, just fifty feet away.

Calla was hanging onto Braeden's arm, pointing excitedly at a tray of diamond rings. She looked radiant, her laugh echoing faintly into the hallway.

Braeden, however, looked miserable. He was checking his watch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked like a man serving a sentence, not planning a wedding.

Ivy's grip tightened on the paper bag in her hand. She turned, intending to take a different route, when a woman walking past her stopped at the nearby perfume counter.

The woman sprayed a tester into the air. Gardenia.

It was the scent Ivy had worn every day of their relationship. The scent he used to bury his face in. The scent that was on her skin the night he kicked her.

The heavy, floral aroma drifted on the air-conditioned currents, wafting toward the open doors of the jewelry store.

Braeden stiffened.

Ivy, who had paused in her retreat, watched in the reflection of a polished column as his head snapped up. He looked around wildly, his nostrils flaring. He pushed Calla's hand away and stepped out of the store, his eyes scanning the atrium.

His gaze swept over the perfume counter, past the woman who had sprayed the scent, and for a split second, it grazed over Ivy's form as she stood partially obscured by a display.

Ivy didn't flinch. She didn't run. She simply turned her back fully, her posture calm, and continued walking toward the exit as if she hadn't noticed a thing.

Braeden's face went pale. He took a stumbling step forward.

"Ivy?" he whispered. The word was swallowed by the cavernous space between them.

"Braeden!" Calla's shrill voice rang out. She ran out of the store, grabbing his arm. "Where are you going? We haven't picked the setting!"

Braeden ignored her. He pulled away and rushed to the perfume counter.

He stood exactly where the other woman had been seconds ago. The air was still thick with the smell of gardenias.

He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He looked left, then right.

Ivy was gone.

"What is wrong with you?" Calla demanded, stomping her foot.

Braeden looked at her, his eyes wide and haunted. "I... I smelled her."

"Smelled who?"

"Ivy."

Calla's face twisted in annoyance. "She's dead, Braeden. She's fish food. Stop being so dramatic."

Braeden shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "It was so strong. It was like she was standing right here."

From the second-floor balcony, having taken the escalator up to circle back to the parking garage, Ivy watched them.

She saw Braeden's trembling hands. She saw the fear in his eyes.

A cold smile touched her lips.

"Haunted, are we?" she thought. "Good."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Felix: Table at La Rive confirmed for 8 PM. Don't be late.

Ivy turned and walked away, leaving the ghost of gardenias to torment the man below.

The sun had set, and Cloud City had transformed into a grid of neon and gold.

A black sedan pulled up to the valet stand of La Rive, the most exclusive private club in the city. The doorman, a man who had turned away senators, checked his clipboard.

"Name?"

"Felix Vance," the agent said, stepping out of the car. He extended a hand to help Ivy out.

She emerged.

She wore a dress of crimson silk, backless and plunging. It was the color of fresh blood, the color of war. It clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck.

The doorman blinked. He didn't ask for her name. He just opened the velvet rope.

Inside, the club was dimly lit, the air filled with the soft crooning of a jazz singer and the clinking of crystal.

Ivy scanned the room as they walked to their table. She saw producers, oil tycoons, politicians. The air smelled of money and secrets.

"Don't look too hungry," Felix whispered as they sat down in a shadowed booth.

"I'm not hungry," Ivy replied, picking up the menu. "I'm full."

She ordered a glass of champagne, but she didn't drink it. She watched the door. She watched Braeden's usual table. It was empty.

After twenty minutes, she felt a restlessness in her legs.

"I'm going to the ladies' room," she told Felix.

She slipped away from the table, navigating the crowded room. The hallway leading to the restrooms was quiet, lined with plush velvet wallpaper and potted palms. The jazz music faded to a dull thrum.

Ivy paused in front of a mirror to check her lipstick.

Scritch. Scritch.

A soft sound came from behind a large fern in the corner.

Ivy turned. "Hello?"

Nothing.

She took a step closer. She saw a small shoe-a shiny black patent leather Mary Jane-poking out from behind the heavy velvet curtain.

Ivy crouched down. "That's not a very good hiding spot," she said gently.

The curtain moved. A little face peeked out.

It was a girl, maybe three years old. She had wild, curly dark hair and huge, terrified eyes. She was trembling.

Ivy's heart did a strange, painful flip in her chest. The girl looked... familiar. There was something about the shape of her eyes, the curve of her chin.

"Are you lost, sweetheart?" Ivy asked, extending a hand.

The girl stared at Ivy's hand but didn't take it. She shook her head frantically. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Mute? Ivy thought.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway. A man's voice, deep and angry, called out. "Search the perimeter!"

The little girl's eyes went wide with panic. She lunged forward and grabbed Ivy's hand.

Her grip was desperate, shockingly strong for such tiny fingers.

"It's okay," Ivy started to say.

But the girl didn't wait. She pulled. She dragged Ivy toward a mahogany door marked VIP - PRIVATE.

Before Ivy could protest, the girl reached up, turned the heavy brass handle, and pulled Ivy inside.

The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the noise from the hallway.

The VIP suite was freezing. The air conditioning was cranked down low, chilling the sweat on Ivy's skin. The room smelled of cedarwood, old leather, and a very expensive, very masculine cologne.

Ivy stumbled, trying to regain her balance in her heels. The little girl was still clutching her hand like a lifeline, pressing her small body against Ivy's leg.

"What on earth-"

"Who are you?"

The voice was like a glacier-deep, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth.

Ivy looked up.

Seated at a large round table in the center of the room was a man. He was striking, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He wore a black suit that cost more than Ivy's entire new wardrobe. He radiated power and irritation in equal waves.

Auguste Randall. The CEO of the Randall Group. The King of Cloud City.

Opposite him sat a woman in a silver sequined dress. She looked startled, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth.

"Auguste, who is this?" the woman demanded, looking Ivy up and down with distaste. "Is this the nanny?"

Auguste didn't look at his date. His gaze was fixed on the child clinging to Ivy.

"Ara," he said. His voice softened by a fraction of a degree, but it was still commanding. "Come here."

The little girl-Ara-shook her head violently. She buried her face in the silk of Ivy's dress, her small shoulders shaking.

Ivy felt the dampness of tears seeping through the fabric onto her thigh.

A wave of protective instinct, hot and fierce, surged through Ivy. She didn't know this child, but she knew that fear. She knew what it felt like to want to hide from the world.

Without thinking, Ivy placed her hand on Ara's head, stroking her messy curls.

"Apologies," Ivy said, lifting her chin to meet Auguste's gaze. "Your daughter... kidnapped me."

Auguste's eyes narrowed. He watched Ivy's hand on his daughter's head. He seemed surprised that Ara wasn't recoiling. Ara hated strangers. She hated being touched.

Yet here she was, melting into this woman in red.

A discreet man in a dark suit, who had been standing almost invisibly in the corner of the room, tensed and took a half-step forward. Auguste lifted a single, commanding finger, halting the bodyguard in his tracks. His gaze remained locked on Ivy, a flicker of something unreadable-curiosity, perhaps-briefly overriding his innate suspicion.

He turned to the woman in sequins. "As you can see," he said smoothly, "my domestic situation is chaotic. I cannot possibly continue this dinner."

The woman gaped. "You're kicking me out? Because the nanny can't control the brat?"

"She's not the nanny," Auguste said. "And yes. Leave."

The woman threw her napkin on the table, grabbed her clutch, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the crystal glasses rattled.

Silence descended on the room.

Auguste stood up. He was tall, towering over the table. He walked toward them slowly, like a wolf circling a trap.

"Nobody sent you?" he asked, stopping two feet away.

Ivy held her ground, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I told you. I was in the hallway. She pulled me in."

Auguste looked at Ara, then back at Ivy. His gaze was intense, dissecting her.

"Who sent you?" he repeated, his voice dropping lower. "My mother? Or a competitor?"