"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."

There's a saying about rain, that it washes everything clean. As I watch the droplets streak down my windowpane, I find myself hoping it's not true. Some things shouldn't be washed away. Some stains are meant to remain.

It's been raining since morning, a gray curtain that has turned the city into a watercolor painting of gloom. The sky is the color of bruised silk, and the world feels quiet and muffled. It's a perfect day for killing someone, I think idly. The atmosphere matches the violence of my thoughts.

On my computer screen, the live video feed from Ethan Croft's house glows. He's in his home office, and he's been sitting there, mostly still, for the past hour. I wonder what he's doing. The camera is positioned on the bookshelf facing his desk, so I can see his troubled expression, but I can't see his laptop screen. It's a small frustration.

A slow smirk touches my lips as I remember the scene from two days ago. The pure horror on his face in his corporate office. The way his eyes bulged, the strangled sound he made before he slumped over his desk, unconscious. It was everything I had hoped for.

Of course, I had to tidy up afterwards. I'd slipped out, still wearing the mask of Beatrice Diaz, but I knew there was going to be a problem. The real Beatrice would eventually contact him, wondering why he'd stood her up. But that's a minor issue. No one is going to believe a man who claims he was haunted by his dead wife. No one saw me but him.

My first stop was the building's maintenance room. The two guards were easy to distract. Inside, it was simple. Santos, my old friend back in Santorini, taught me well. A few commands, and every digital trace of Beatrice Diaz entering or leaving the executive floor was wiped from the system.

On my way out, I even passed the same receptionist. The one with the bright smile. "Miss Diaz! I hope your meeting went well?" she chirped.

Before she could say another word, I gently pulled her aside. "I need you to erase my name from the visitor log. Right now."

Her smile vanished. "Oh, I can't do that, ma'am. It's against company policy, and–"

I didn't let her finish. Every human has a price, a weakness. For some, it's fear; for others, it's greed. For her, it was a combination of both. A discreet but significant bribe, followed by a softly spoken threat about the consequences of disobeying a very powerful client, did the trick. Her eyes widened, and her fingers flew across the tablet, deleting the entry. I made her promise that if Mr. Croft asked, she saw no one named Beatrice Diaz that day.

A sudden yawn takes me by surprise, stretching my jaw. I push back from my desk and go to stand before the floor-to-ceiling window. The rain blurs the sharp edges of the skyscrapers, making the world outside look soft and dreamlike.

My thoughts drift to the rest of my day. I'm supposed to meet with an investor later, which is unusual. Typically, Dahlia handles all of that. But she called me this morning, explaining that this particular investor specifically requested to meet the lead designer for the Winter Couture collection. It's a strange request, but not entirely unheard of. Some people like to put a face to the art, I suppose.

Weird, but whatever. I let out a sigh, the weight of the memory pressing down on me, and return to my chair. My eyes drift back to the desktop screen, but this time, I freeze, leaning in to watch more intently. She's there. The mistress is inside the house now.

Natasha Biggs. The name alone is a shard of glass in my heart. She was once my best friend. We were inseparable from high school all the way through college. I truly believed I had found an angel in human form, a sister I'd chosen for myself. I never, in my wildest nightmares, imagined that the very same best friend would be the one to stab me in the back, so deeply and so cruelly that the wound would never truly heal. The betrayal of finding her in my bed with my husband was a pain I still can't fully articulate.

What's so bitterly, tragically funny is that the same day I discovered them, I also discovered I was pregnant. The highest joy and the lowest despair, crashing into me within hours of each other.

And if it wasn't for them... if it wasn't for the incident that happened later... my child would have been safe. My child would have been four years old now. My child would have been–

The sharp, shrill ring of my desk phone makes me flinch violently, yanking me from the abyss. I take a sharp, steadying breath, my hand trembling slightly as I pick up the receiver.

"Miss Ashford, the Director is asking for you in her office," announces Misha, Dahlia's secretary.

"I'll be right there. Thank you," I say, my voice miraculously even. I hang up, pressing my palms flat against the cool wood of the desk.

There's no point in dwelling in the past. But that doesn't mean I will ever forget it. Never. I can never forget, and I will make sure the ones who harmed me will also never be allowed to forget.

Pushing the dark thoughts into a locked box in my mind, I smooth down my dress and make my way to Dahlia's corner office on the floor above. A few minutes later, I reach her door, knock twice, and wait.

"Come in!" Dahlia's cheerful voice calls out.

I enter and see her sitting in one of the plush armchairs. A man in a tailored charcoal-grey suit is sitting opposite her, his back to me. I put on a professional smile and walk over.

"Ah, perfect timing," Dahlia says, beaming. "This is Vanessa Ashford, our brilliant lead designer for the Winter Couture collection." She gestures to me, then to the investor.

The man rises, turning to face me, and for a split second, my breath catches. It's him. I know this face. I know those piercing, cool grey eyes that had studied me so intently in the crowd at the after-party. He offers a small, composed smile and extends his hand.

"Hello, Miss Ashford," he says. His voice is deep. I hadn't truly noticed it before.

"Hello," I reply, placing my hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and brief. I take the seat across from him.

Dahlia continues, "This is Ceron Morrison, of Morrison World." Morrison World. The name alone signifies immense, old-money influence. I nod in acknowledgment as his gaze settles on me. There's an intensity in the way he looks at me-not lecherous, but... deeply observant. Maybe I'm just being oversensitive.

"We were just discussing the vision for the Winter Couture show," Dahlia begins, steering the conversation. "Ceron is particularly interested in the narrative behind the collection."

Ceron's eyes never leave mine. "Yes," he says. "Dahlia tells me it's inspired by the theme of 'Phoenix.' A story of rebirth from the ashes. I'm curious, Miss Ashford, what personal resonance does that myth hold for you?"

Dahlia looks at me, expecting a thoughtful answer. I meet his gaze squarely, "It's about transformation, Mr. Morrison," I say. "The idea that something far more powerful and beautiful can rise from a complete and utter destruction of the old. It's not about forgetting the fire, but about being forged by it."

"Interesting," he says, a subtle hint of amusement coloring his deep voice. It feels like he's not just commenting on the theme, but on me.

Then Dahlia interjects, moving the conversation back to business. "The phoenix narrative will be woven through the entire collection, from the opening piece to the finale. We see it as a powerful statement for the modern woman."

Ceron nods, his gaze finally breaking from mine to address Dahlia. "A compelling angle. My foundation has a growing interest in narratives of female resilience and renewal. It aligns perfectly with our new philanthropic arm."

I listen as their conversation flows from marketing synergies to global outreach, piecing together that Morrison World is a vast, privately held conglomerate with fingers in everything from tech to real estate, and apparently, now, high-level philanthropy. Throughout the discussion, I feel the weight of his gaze flick back to me, twice, then a third time. It's not overt, but it's unmistakable.

He then turns the conversation back to me. "Your previous collection, the one that debuted in Milan, was praised for its architectural precision. It's quite a different energy from this new, more organic theme. What inspired that shift?"

I offer a rehearsed answer. "A designer must evolve. My time in Santorini allowed me to appreciate a different kind of beauty, one that's less structured and more emotional."

He nods slowly, as if filing the information away. "Santorini. A beautiful place to call home. It suits you."

The personal note in his question throws me off. Why does an investor care about where I live or my creative journey? His questions don't feel like a business discussion. They feel more like an... intrusion.

We talk for a few more minutes, and I feel a wave of relief as the meeting finally winds down. I glance at Dahlia, my eyes subtly asking if I am free to go. She gives a tiny shake of her head, a silent signal to stay put.

We all stand up. He shakes Dahlia's hand first. "It's a pleasure, Dahlia. I look forward to our partnership," he says smoothly.

Then he turns to me. I keep my professional smile firmly in place and offer my hand. His hand is much bigger than mine, and surprisingly rough, not soft like a typical businessman's. The brief contact sends a little, unwelcome jump through my heart, which annoys me. I don't like my body reacting to a man like this.

"I look forward to seeing your work come to life, Miss Ashford," he adds, his grey eyes holding mine for a moment too long.

"Of course," I say, my voice a bit tight.

I take a step back, eager to put some distance between us, but my heel catches on the leg of the chair behind me. My balance vanishes, and I stumble, my arms flailing for a second. A gasp catches in my throat. Oh no.

Before I can fall, strong hands shoot out and catch me, one firm on my back, the other gripping my arm. He moves with shocking speed. He holds me steady until my feet are firmly under me again, his grip both sure and surprisingly gentle.

The entire world seems to shrink to the points of contact. The warmth of his hand through the fabric of my dress, the solid strength of his arm. My heart isn't just jumping now; it is hammering.

I look up, my face flushed, right into those piercing grey eyes. They are much closer now.