Obsessed.

It's a weak word for what I'm feeling. It doesn't capture this... compulsion. This raw need to understand something, someone, who is a complete mystery. I know it's unpredictable, and I usually hate unpredictability. That's what makes this so unsettling.

I've noticed women before. I've dated. But the idea of one actually getting under my skin has never ever happened. Until her. Vanessa Ashford. She's got me twisted up, and I can't seem to straighten myself out.

Am I sounding like a fucking dog in heat? Probably. But for the first time, I find I don't care.

I take the last sip of bourbon, the amber liquid burning a smooth path down my throat, and set the heavy crystal glass on the mahogany desk. Fourteen days. I've seen her twice in that time, and only once was I close enough to speak three words to her. "No harm done." Pathetic.

The file with her name typed neatly on the label lies beside the glass. I've gone through it a dozen times. The more I read, the more the puzzle deepens. The official story is there-her rise in the fashion world, her business-but I know, with a certainty, that there's more. There's so much more hidden beneath the surface, and I have to know what it is.

The first time I saw her was at JFK. I was killing time in the executive lounge, foregoing the jet for a commercial flight for a change of pace, when I heard a commotion outside near the duty-free shops. Through the glass, I saw it all unfold with the clarity of a scene in a film.

A man was running, clutching a handbag. And then, her. A woman in a tailored jumpsuit, moving with a fluid, shocking grace. She closed the distance and executed a perfect, devastating kick to the back of his knee. The man went down hard with a grunt.

I stood and went out. It was better than sitting there, pretending to ignore the usual stares from other passengers. I leaned against a pillar, just another face in the gathering crowd, and watched.

She didn't scream. She simply stalked over, grabbed the whimpering man by his collar, and pinned him with a knee in his back. Her voice was loud enough to be heard, cutting through the airport buzz.

"Instead of stealing, go find some work!"

The man just groaned. She leaned in closer, her dark brown hair falling like a curtain beside her face. "If men like you stopped doing shit like this, the world might be a better place."

A smirk tugged at my mouth. I couldn't help it. She let him go with a shove, snatched her bag back, and stood up, brushing off her coat.

"And it's the only Bottega Veneta I own, you douchebag!" she hissed, her tone full of a venom I found utterly captivating.

Then she just walked away, disappearing into the river of travelers. And I just stood there, rooted to the spot. I didn't know her name. I didn't know a single thing about her. But I felt an intrigue so sharp it was like a physical pull. I had to know who she was. And that was just the beginning.

The next time I saw her was at the Aethelred House fashion show. I hadn't expected her to be there at all. But then I spotted her across the room, and it was like everything else just faded into background noise.

She was wearing a dark green gown that seemed to drink the light. It was a cascade of silk, so dark it was almost black, but then she'd move and a thousand tiny rhinestones would catch the light, shimmering like stars against a midnight forest. She looked both utterly real and completely ethereal. Unreachable.

I watched her for most of the night. It was a new kind of torture. She wasn't looking at the clothes or mingling with the crowd. Her entire focus was fixed elsewhere, a deep intensity that I could feel from across the room. I followed her gaze and found its target: Ethan Croft.

The connection sent a jolt through me. Did she know him? Were they involved? The thought that she might be interested in a married man, a man like him, sat in my gut like a stone. I couldn't just watch from a distance anymore. I needed to be near her, to break that focus, if only for a second.

So, I made my move. I intentionally stepped back, letting her bump into me. When she turned, and her eyes-those sharp, blue, intelligent eyes-finally met mine, I wanted to freeze the moment. To stretch it out. But she was all caution and distance, a beautiful fortress with its gates slammed shut. She was even more captivating up close.

And then she was gone. She had a motive for being there, I was sure of it. I saw the way she disappeared into the crowd after that strange blackout.

It's been two days since that night, and she hasn't left my goddamn mind. It's fucking annoying. So irritating that I finally called Simon and told him to dig up everything on Vanessa Ashford. But the file is thin. She's a vault. Privacy. Discreetness. She's not some socialite leaving a digital trail. She's something else entirely, and that, more than anything, is what I find so goddamn interesting.

Fuck.

My phone vibrates, cutting through the silence. Simon's name flashes on the screen.

"What is it, Simon?"

"Sir, Croft Textiles International has sent their tenth email requesting a meeting. Should I decline again, as per standard protocol?"

I press my fingers to my temple, the beginning of a headache forming, and drop into the leather chair behind my desk. Ethan Croft. A man and a company I have given zero fucks about for years. But now... now it's different. He's a thread connected to her.

"No," I say, the decision solidifying as I speak. "Tell them I'll see them. Thursday, 11 AM sharp at my office."

Simon notes it down, the sound of his typing faint through the line. He's about to end the call when I stop him. "There's something else I want you to do. Find out her whereabouts when she was in Santorini, apart from the information that she lives with her brother. You know what to do."

"Sure, sir," he replies, his voice neutral. Then the line goes dead.

I release a long breath, leaning back in the chair. I try to focus on the business meeting with Ricci tomorrow, on Croft, but my mind betrays me. It drifts back to the feeling of her shoulder against my chest in that crowded room. How surprisingly small she felt. And her scent-like dark roses, not sweet, but deep and complicated, with a hint of thorn.

I need to stop, because if I don't, I'm liable to do something completely irrational, like drive to Manhattan and show up at her apartment door like a fucking creepy stalker. And the last thing I want to do is scare her away.

The sharp knock on the door comes just then, a welcome interruption from my own dangerous thoughts. For a moment, I can't decide if I'm annoyed or thankful for the distraction.

"Come in."

The door opens and one of the housekeepers stands there, her hands folded neatly. "Dinner is served, sir. Your father is expecting you downstairs."

I give a curt nod, and she disappears. Dinner. Or, as I like to call it, my father's favorite opportunity to piss his only son off. I slide Vanessa's file back into the locked drawer of my desk, a deliberate action to shut her away for now. Then I head downstairs, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor as I make my way to the formal dining room.

My parents don't see me often, so the few times I am here, they don't waste a single minute. They sure do love me, in their own uniquely pressuring way.

"Hello, everyone," I say, my voice flat. I greet my mother with a glance and then my father, who is already seated at the head of the long table. I take my usual seat beside him, directly across from my mother.

Mom offers a soft, practiced smile, the pearls around her neck glinting in the warm light of the chandelier. With a subtle wave of her hand, she gestures for the serving staff to leave us alone. The rich, savory aroma of roasted chicken and herbs fills the air, and for a fleeting second, it takes me back. I'm a teenager again, coming home from school to the smell of my mother actually cooking for me herself, before all this formality took over.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. After my first bite, my father cuts to the chase. "How is the Aurora Point acquisition going?"

"It's on track," I answer, my tone even. "The due diligence is complete. We're just finalizing the shareholder agreements." It's the truth, and it's an answer designed to satisfy him. He hates surprises.

He gives a single, approving nod and continues his meal, taking a slow sip of his Chardonnay.

The silence stretches until my mother breaks it with something completely random. "I went to the Hamilton's tea party today. I met Rebecca there you know, Theresa's daughter? She's around your age, Ceron."

I don't even look up from my plate. I already know exactly where this is heading.

"She was asking about you," she continues, her voice light and hopeful. "Why don't the two of you meet up? Get to know each other?"

"Sorry, Mom. I'm busy," I say, focusing on cutting a piece of chicken.

She lets out a heavy, visible sigh. "You say that all the time. You're twenty-seven already, son. It's time you started thinking about marriage."

I'm almost done with my dinner. I drain the last of my wine and set the glass down with a quiet finality. "I'm only twenty-seven, Mom. And I will not be getting married just for the sake of marriage, so please don't pressure me. We've had this conversation." I keep my tone neutral.

Mom frowns, deeply unsatisfied. I've been giving her some version of this answer for the last four years. She should be used to it by now.

My father, who has been quiet this whole time, finally speaks. He lays his silverware down and meticulously wipes his mouth with a linen napkin. "A strategic marriage is an integral part of our legacy, Ceron. In the world we live in, it is a necessary alliance. No matter what your... personal feelings... you will be married before you are thirty-five."

The ultimatum hangs in the air. It's not a request.

"I am aware of it, Dad," I say, my voice cool. I push my chair back and stand. "Thank you for the dinner."

"Where are you going now?" my mother asks, her worry evident.

"I'm supposed to meet with an investor," I lie smoothly.

With that, I turn and walk out. But there's no investor. The truth is, there's a fucktard who has been locked in a warehouse for the last forty-eight hours. It's time I went down there and ended this.

Humans and their selfishness. They make one stupid, greedy mistake, and it costs them everything. Even their life. Of course. It's a story as old as time, and it always ends the same way. Just like Dennis Baker.

For years, Dennis was just another face in the finance department. A reliable employee, or so I thought. He had a family, a mortgage, the whole picture of a man content with his lot in life. But that's the thing about greed, it paints over contentment. He decided that his loyalty, his integrity, was worth less than the huge sum of money and empty promises our rivals dangled in front of him.

He thought he could be clever. He thought he could access the internal data for the 'Aurora Point' project (the very project I just discussed with my father) and slip it to our competitors without a trace.

Idiot.

He should have thought thrice. He should have understood that when you sign a contract with me, you're pledging your allegiance. Crossing me isn't a career risk; it's a life-altering miscalculation. I don't tolerate disloyalty. It's a weakness that, left unchecked, infects everything.

Now, he's had forty-eight hours sitting in the dark, locked in a secure, soundproofed room in a forgotten warehouse on the industrial docks. Forty-eight hours to reflect on that one stupid, greedy mistake. He's had time to realize that the money he was promised won't do him any good where he's going. That the assurances he was given were worthless.

The drive there is quiet. The city lights blur past the tinted windows of the car. The car pulls up to the warehouse. The air outside is cold and smells of salt and rust. My head of security, Marcus, meets me at the door with that poker face of his. "He's awake, sir. And he's... talkative."

"Let's go and listen, then," I say, my voice even. "I want to hear what a man who has lost everything has to say for himself."

It's not a task I relish. But it is a necessary one. In my world, consequences aren't a threat; they are a promise. And tonight, Dennis Baker is going to learn that firsthand.

"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.

The executive lounge is empty, just as I knew it would be at this hour. I move past the plush sofas and straight to the small bar. There it is, the familiar cut-crystal carafe, filled with fresh water and slices of cucumber, just as he's always preferred it. A tray sits ready for a staff member to take it to him.

I walk smoothly and as I pass the tray, my hand slips from my pocket. The small glass vial is cool in my palm. With a deft, almost invisible twist of my wrist, I uncork it and let three precise drops fall into the water. They disappear instantly, leaving no trace, no cloud, no scent. I recap the vial and it's back in my pocket before I've taken two more steps. The entire act takes less than a second.

I then walk out of the lounge and, taking a deep, steadying breath, push open the door to the CEO's office. This is the second phase of the plan.

The door is ajar, meaning he's expecting "Beatrice." I walk in and see him sitting behind his vast, mahogany desk. He's wearing a sky-blue suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, and when he notices me, he gets up with that practiced, charming smile that once fooled me completely.

"Miss Diaz, a pleasure. I hope your flight in wasn't too hectic," he says, his voice oozing false pleasantry.

"It was fine," I say flatly, cutting the small talk short. I don't wait for an invitation; I simply sit down in the rich, brown leather chair opposite his desk, crossing my legs. It's 10:32. Within the next eight minutes, a staff member will arrive with the tray.

"We should get straight to the point, Mr. Croft. My firm is very interested in your new sustainable linen, but the exclusivity clause you're proposing is unacceptable. We need a guaranteed seventy percent of the initial yield, not fifty."

I've done my homework. I know the details of the deal he was trying to strike with the real Beatrice, and I know exactly which points to push. He leans back, steepling his fingers.

"Fifty percent is more than generous, Miss Diaz. We have other partners to consider. We need to find a common ground."

I let out a short, dismissive laugh. "Common ground? I flew all the way from Madrid for this meeting, and this is the level of flexibility you offer? I was led to believe you were a more visionary businessman." I can see it the moment the barb lands. Ethan hates being compared unfavorably. A tiny muscle in his jaw begins to twitch.

"Vision must be tempered with realism," he counters, his voice tightening. "Flooding a single market with seventy percent of our premier product is a strategic risk I cannot take."

"Then perhaps your competitors will see its value more clearly," I scoff, waving a hand as if the entire negotiation is beneath me. "They seem to understand what it takes to secure a landmark deal."

He's properly annoyed now, his pleasant facade cracking to reveal the petulance beneath. Just as he opens his mouth to retort, there's a soft knock. Perfect timing. An old staff member enters, carefully placing the tray with the crystal carafe and two glasses on the coffee table between us before silently slipping out.

Ethan glares at me, the interruption fueling his irritation. "The pros of a diversified partnership far outweigh the cons of putting all your eggs in one basket, a basket that has a history of being... volatile."

I don't care about his pros and cons. My eyes briefly flick to the carafe, then back to him, my expression one of sheer contempt. "Volatile? Or perhaps just discerning? It seems you're not the man I thought you were. This is a waste of my time."

I make a show of gathering my bag, pushing every one of his buttons, ensuring his frustration is so high that the first thing he'll crave is a long drink of that water. Just as I expected, his pride can't let me walk out.

"Miss Diaz, please," he says, the words strained. "Sit down. Let's... try to work this out."

I let out an exaggerated huff of impatience but settle back into the leather chair, crossing my arms over my chest in a clear sign of defiance.

He tries a different tack, leaning forward with a condescending smile. "Perhaps if your firm was willing to cover the additional shipping costs, we could discuss a sixty percent allocation. It's a significant concession."

I pull another button. "Concession?" I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "My God, no wonder your market share is shrinking. You're nickel-and-diming the very partners who could save you. Mhokava would never be this short-sighted."

His face flushes a deep red. "Miss Diaz, you are being out of line."

"Am I?" I scoff, my voice dripping with false concern. "Or are you just unable to handle a woman who doesn't bow to your terms? Maybe you should have a drink of water. Cool down that male anger of yours."

The jab hits its mark. Annoyed, and precisely as I'd hoped, he reaches for the crystal carafe. His hand is not quite steady. He pours water into both glasses, shoving one across the table toward me with a sharp, sarcastic comment. "Perhaps this will cool you down as well."

I simply rest my fingers lightly on the cool glass, making no move to drink. My heart hammers against my ribs. "After you," I purr.

He glares, then lifts his own glass and gulps half of it down in one go.

I smile to myself, leaning back, making a show of being too agitated to drink. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Your company's inability to think big."

Ethan runs a hand over his face, a sigh escaping him. "This isn't about thinking big, it's about unsustainable demands..."

His sentence trails off. It's starting. Two, three minutes have passed. I can see the first signs of disorientation clouding his eyes. He shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, and loosens his tie with a jerky motion.

"Are you okay, Mr. Croft?" I ask, my voice laced with a feigned, sweet concern as I lean forward.

"I'm... fine," he mutters, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. "Just a bit... warm."

"Are you feeling dizzy?"

"I guess... a little," he admits, his speech slightly slurred. He reaches for the water glass again and drains it, but this time, it brings no relief. He just looks paler.

Good.

It's time for the first hit. My voice drops, losing all pretense of Beatrice Diaz. "Do you remember Daphne Ashford?"

He blinks, his brow furrowing as he tries to focus his narrowing eyes on me. "Daphne?"

"Yes," I say, "Your ex-wife."

A dark chuckle escapes me. "No," I correct him, my gaze locking with his. "I mean, your dead ex-wife."

"How do you... how do you know about her?" he slurs, trying to push himself upright, to maintain some semblance of control. But it's a losing battle. With each second, the toxin winds deeper into his system, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare.

I simply smirk and peel the small, flesh-colored voice modulator from my throat. He's too far gone to even notice the shift in my voice now. It's my true voice that asks, cold and clear, "Tell me, Mr. Croft, how did she die?"

I rise from the chair and stand up. Instead of answering, he groans, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his temples as if trying to crush the rising chaos inside his skull.

I lean in close, my face inches from his. "Did you, perhaps, kill her?"

His head snaps up, his eyes wild and unfocused. He tries to glare, but there's only terror there now. I am not intimidated. I smile, a cold, cruel curve of my lips, and hiss, "Or did you leave her in the fire to burn and die?"

"Who are you?" he gasps, his body beginning to tremble. He's losing his grip, starting to feel a profound, disorienting vertigo, as if the floor is tilting beneath him. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead, and a rising tide of paranoia whispers that the walls are closing in.

Slowly, deliberately, I reach up and pull off the blonde wig, letting my own dark hair tumble down. I then take a silk handkerchief from my pocket and wipe away the heavy makeup around my eyes and lips, erasing the last traces of Beatrice Diaz.

I look him directly in his clouded eyes.

His own eyes widen, the pupils dilated with a horror that is both chemical and soul-deep. His face, which was already pale, becomes a ghastly sheet-white. A strangled, disbelieving gasp escapes him.

"D-Daphne?"

I smirk, "Miss me much, dear husband?"

"How did... you... you're-" he stammers, his mind fracturing under the impossible weight of my presence.

"Shut the fuck up," I snap. In one swift movement, I grab him by his expensive silk tie and collar, yanking him forward until I can feel his panicked breath on my face. I glare into his terrified eyes.

"You left me there," I snarl, my voice trembling not with fear, but with a rage held back for five long years. "You locked the door and you left me to scream and burn. You thought a fire could finish what you didn't have the guts to do yourself?"

He whimpers, a pathetic sound, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Every night, Ethan. Do you hear her screams? Or have you managed to drown them out with your money and your mistress?" I shove him back, and he collapses into his chair, a broken, trembling mess. "This is just the beginning. The woman you thought you buried is back. And I'm not going anywhere until there's nothing left of you but ashes."