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.

I can still smell her.

The scent of dark roses and something uniquely her still lingers on my fingers. I close my eyes for a moment, leaning my head back against the plush leather seat. It’s a special kind of torture. I was so close to her, close enough to touch, and all I could do was exchange a few polite words.

My hands had twitched with the urge to hold her face, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. But if I had, she would have slapped me hard and rightly marked me as a creepy pervert. The whole meeting was my doing, of course. There was no real need for a designer to be there, but I insisted. I just wanted to see her up close, to see if she remembered me from that brief moment at the party.

And she did. I could see the flicker of recognition in those sharp blue eyes before her professional mask slammed back into place. That small acknowledgment, for some reason, satisfied a deep, primal part of me.

But what I didn't expect was to catch her. When she stumbled, it was pure instinct. My body moved before my mind could. Holding her felt… right. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and her fingers had clutched the fabric of my blazer, holding on tight. My hand was splayed across her lower back, feeling the delicate arch of her spine, while my other hand held her arm, steadying her. It lasted only a few seconds, but the memory is burned into my mind.

It’s been fifteen minutes since I left Aethelred House, and I can’t stop replaying the moment.

“Sir, the meeting with Ethan Croft is scheduled for 11 am today,” Simon says from the seat beside the driver, pulling me from my thoughts.

I push the image of Vanessa aside for now and check my watch. Twenty minutes left. “Tell me my schedule for the rest of the day.”

Simon consults his tablet. “After Mr. Croft, you have a lunch with the architects for the new waterfront property at 1 p.m. Then, a 3 p.m. conference call with the Hong Kong office regarding the shipping logistics.” He then adds, “Oh, and the Director called. He’s called for a board meeting next week to discuss the quarterly expansion strategy.”

I give a short nod, making a mental note to call my father back once I’m in the office. My patience is wearing thin. I need a distraction, or rather, the one distraction I can’t stop thinking about.

“Simon, the dossier on Vanessa Ashford,” I say, my voice a low command.

He hands me the thin file. I’m impatient, hungry for more. The information is frustratingly basic. She was originally from here, in Brooklyn, but five years ago, she moved to Santorini with her brother. That’s it. There’s no mention of her parents at all. No records, no obituaries, nothing. It’s a void, and that’s suspicious.

“The agents are on it, sir,” Simon says, sensing my frustration. “But they’re hitting walls. It’s like her life before Santorini just… doesn’t exist.”

I let out an impatient groan, staring out the tinted window at the blur of the city. What is she hiding? What happened to her?

“Keep digging,” I tell him, my tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care what it takes. I want to know everything.”

~

“Thank you for accepting my request for a meeting, Mr. Morrison,” Ethan Croft says, a slick, practiced smile on his face as he settles into the chair across from my desk.

I give a short nod, my eyes scanning him. He’s well-dressed, confident, but there’s a hunger in his eyes that he can’t quite hide. And all I can think about is the memory of Vanessa Ashford staring at him across that crowded room. That same intense, focused look. The question of whether they know each other lingers in the back of my mind, a persistent, irritating itch I can’t scratch.

I lean back, crossing my legs. “You’ve been… persistent, Mr. Croft. It seemed you wouldn’t take no for an answer,” I say, a small, cool smile playing on my lips.

I see a flicker of annoyance, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth at my little jab, but he keeps the smile firmly in place. He can’t afford to lose his composure. Not here. Croft Textiles International has shown steady growth over the last four years, which is fine for a mid-tier company. Their numbers are solid, but there’s nothing groundbreaking about them. There’s no real, compelling business reason for Morrison World to collaborate with them. The only reason he’s sitting in my office is because of her. Because I wanted to see the man who held her attention.

Ethan launches into his pitch, his voice smooth. “As I outlined in my proposal, a partnership would allow Morrison World to integrate a fully-vetted, domestic textile supply chain, guaranteeing quality and reducing overseas shipping delays for your retail divisions.”

I smirk. It’s the same song and dance. “Tell me, Mr. Croft, why should Morrison World, with all its resources, choose to invest in you? What makes you different from the dozen other textile firms knocking on my door?”

He sits up straighter, puffing out his chest. “Our commitment to innovation and our agile business model allows us to adapt where larger corporations cannot. We offer a personal touch.”

It’s the same empty talk every desperate businessman uses. Truly boring. I counter, pointing out a minor flaw in his last quarter’s projections. He fumbles for a moment, his answer a bit too rehearsed.

Greed is a human tendency, but this guy is just transparently opportunistic. I throw him a curveball, a hypothetical market crash scenario, just to see how he thinks on his feet.

He wasn’t expecting it. His expression tightens, and his answer is generic, full of corporate buzzwords with no real substance. I’m almost done. I stand up, signaling the end of our time. “It was… informative to meet you, Mr. Croft.”

But he doesn’t take the hint. He stays seated, a desperate look in his eyes. “Mr. Morrison, I am far more capable than my company’s current profile suggests. For instance, I single-handedly led the Ricci merger on behalf of the Ashford Group six years ago.”

The name ‘Ashford’ piques a bit of my attention. I narrow my eyes. “Is that so?” I’ve never heard his name in connection with that project. Of course, I wasn’t CEO then; my father was handling that side of the business.

“It’s the truth,” he insists, leaning forward.

“Well, that has nothing to do with me,” I tell him with a dismissive scoff. “That was my father’s project. This meeting is over.”

Ethan Croft visibly swallows his words, his face flushing. He stands, forcing another thank you before he practically flees my office.

The moment the door clicks shut, I press the intercom. “Simon. Get in here.”

He enters almost immediately. “Sir?”

“Pull all the files on the Ricci project. The joint venture between us and the Ashford Group, from six years ago. I want to see everything.”

“Certainly, sir,” Simon replies. “It will be on your desk in fifteen minutes.” He turns to leave but pauses at the door. “Also, sir, the agents have just received a new data packet on Vanessa Ashford. They said it’s fragmented, but it’s something. I’ll bring it to you now.”

A spark of anticipation cuts through my frustration. “Do it.”

A moment later, Simon returns and places a thin file on my desk. I open it, my eyes scanning the pages quickly. But the spark dies just as fast. It’s more of the same—confirmed details about her education, her professional accolades, her property in Santorini. There is nothing about her parents. No marriage certificate, no death certificates, no old addresses. The black hole surrounding the five-year gap in her life remains utterly impenetrable.

It’s the same goddamn thing.

I slam the file shut. “This is useless.”

Simon remains perfectly still. “The lead agent informed me that the level of encryption and data wiping on her past is… highly advanced, sir. It’s not just hidden…it’s as if the traces were never there to begin with. They said it’s the kind of clean slate usually reserved for people in witness protection or…”

“Or what?” I press, my voice low.

“Or for those with the resources and motive to truly disappear.”

My private line buzzes, cutting off Simon’s troubling observation. The screen flashes FATHER. I dismiss Simon with a wave of my hand. “Bring me the files the moment they’re here.”

I wait for the door to click shut before I answer, my voice even. “Father.”

His tone is as composed as ever, but I can hear the subtle undercurrent of a man who doesn’t like being out of the loop. “Ceron. Simon informs me you’ve authorized a significant investment into Aethelred House. I wasn’t notified of this prior to the commitment. I trust you have a compelling strategic reason for diverting capital into what seems, on the surface, to be a vanity project?”

He leaves the question hanging, a clear demand for justification. I lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the city skyline. I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t say because of a woman. Because her scent of dark roses is stuck in my mind and her past is a locked vault I need to crack open.

“It’s not a vanity project,” I reply coolly. “It’s a strategic entry into the luxury goods market. Aethelred’s brand value is skyrocketing, and their upcoming Winter Couture collection is predicted to be a global event. Aligning Morrison World with that level of cultural influence opens doors to a new, high-net-worth demographic we’ve been struggling to capture. It’s a branding play, and the ROI on perception can be far greater than that of raw materials.”

There’s a pause on the other end. I can almost hear him weighing my words, looking for the flaw. “A branding play,” he repeats, his tone neutral. “It’s an unconventional move. I hope your confidence in their designs isn’t… overly personal.”

The comment hits a little too close to home. My jaw tightens slightly. “My confidence is in the data and the market shift, Father. Nothing more.”

“See that it is,” he says, the warning clear. “The board will be watching this closely.”

The line goes dead. I set the phone down and let out a sigh. He’s right to be suspicious. This is personal. But it’s also becoming something more. The deeper I dig into Vanessa Ashford, the more the mystery around her pulls me in. An investment in her world is the easiest way to stay close, to watch, to understand. And if it makes business sense along the way, all the better.