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.

Victor and Esther Croft have returned from the Maldives today. I watched them from a distance, rolling their expensive suitcases through the airport. As much as I hate their son, I hate them just as fiercely.

They were never the innocent, unaware parents. They were cut from the same rotten cloth, always looking the other way, always enabling his worst behavior. My very first real strike is aimed at them, and every detail is meticulously planned.

It will be completely different from the mind games I've been playing with Ethan. I'm not going to simply appear and scare them. No, that would be too easy. I don't plan to reveal myself to them at all. Their punishment needs to be quieter, a slow poison that seeps into the foundation of their perfect little world.

Now, as I sit in my office at Aethelred House, I watch the four of them in the Crofts' living room on my screen. They're laughing, talking about their trip, showing off trinkets. Just a moment ago, Natasha gushed about how she wishes to go there for her honeymoon. The entire conversation makes me sick. It's all so fake.

They just got back yesterday. My original plan was to begin tomorrow, to let them settle in. But watching them, so smug and comfortable, makes my skin crawl. My patience is wearing dangerously thin. Why wait? I think it will be perfectly fine to start today.

Right at that moment, my desk phone rings. I quickly click the live feed window closed, erasing the evidence, before picking up the call.

It's Dahlia. "Vanessa, are the initial sketches for the finale gowns prepared?" she asks, her voice all business.

"Yes, they're ready," I say. "The atelier has already started on the muslins for the first two designs. The fabric sourcing is underway."

"Excellent. Please bring them to my office right away," she orders. "I have the marketing team here, and we need to finalize the visuals for the first campaign shoot."

"I'll be right there," I reply and hang up.

I stand, gathering the large portfolio of sketches from my desk. But before I head out, I pull the desktop screen back up. My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up a specific encrypted server. I type in a single command: RELEASE PACKAGE ONE. I hit enter. A progress bar flashes and then disappears. Done.

A slow smile touches my lips. I feel a deep, thrumming sense of satisfaction. All I have to do now is wait for the news to break.

~

It's been six grueling hours since I walked into Dahlia's office. Six hours of non-stop work-finalizing sketches, arguing with the marketing team about the "vision," and overseeing the first frantic preparations for the campaign shoot. The shoot itself went well, they tell me. The models looked stunning. But honestly, I don't care about hemlines and lighting right now.

The moment I'm back in my own office, I close the door and finally turn on my personal phone. It buzzes violently, notifications flooding the screen. And yes, there it is. My smile returns, wider this time, as I scroll through the news alerts popping up one after another.

It's trending. And why wouldn't it be? The Crofts have worked very hard to be significant, and now their name is being dragged through the mud. I click on one of the top articles from The New York Chronicle.

"SCANDAL IN THE TEXTILE EMPIRE: SOURCES REVEAL VICTOR CROFT'S ALLEGED LONG-TERM AFFAIRS," the headline screams.

Below it are a series of grainy but damning photos-photos I meticulously doctored-of Victor in cozy, intimate-looking situations with various women. The narrative I fed to Noah, an ambitious journalist at the Chronicle, was simple: a heartbroken insider from the company revealing Victor's decades of infidelity.

Perfect. This was my first real attack. Publicly shaming Victor Croft for something he, for all his other faults, never actually did. The irony is delicious.

I sink into the plush white chair behind my desk, scrolling through the article with a sense of triumph. I sent Noah the fabricated pictures this morning along with the false narrative. It was almost too easy. Manipulating stories is simple when no one knows the real one.

I can only imagine what is happening in that house right now. Esther, with her pride and her perfect socialite image, must be losing her mind.

I scoff and turn on the live feed from their living room. The scene is exactly what I hoped for. They are in the middle of a heated argument. Esther is standing, her face flushed and tear-streaked, waving her phone-likely displaying the very article I just read. Victor is on his feet, his hands raised, trying to placate her.

I put in my Bluetooth earpiece, and their voices fill my ears.

"You're lying!" Esther shrieks. "How could you? All these years! With my friends? You've made a fool of me!"

"Esther, listen to me! It's not true!" Victor's voice is strained, desperate. "These photos are fake! Someone is setting me up!"

"Shut up!" she hisses, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger toward him. Her entire body is trembling with rage and humiliation. "You've ruined us! My phone has not stopped ringing! The entire Ladies' Auxiliary Club has seen it! Everyone is laughing at me!"

Just then, the front door swings open and Ethan storms in, his face a dark cloud. He's clearly seen the news. For a fleeting second, Victor's eyes light up with a pathetic hope, seeing his son as a potential ally.

"Ethan, thank God! You have to call the lawyers, the PR team...we need to issue a statement immediately! These pictures are fabricated! It's a targeted attack!" Victor pleads, grabbing his son's arm.

But Ethan roughly shakes him off, his own expression twisted in disgust. "How could you do this, Dad? To Mom? To me? It's despicable, even for you."

Victor stumbles back as if struck. "You believe this? You believe I would be this stupid? I'm telling you, I didn't do anything!" His voice rises to a frantic scream, echoing through the marble foyer. "None of it is real!"

But no one is listening. Esther is sobbing into her hands, and Ethan is glaring, his arms crossed, a picture of judgment which is so hypocritical of him because he did the same to me with Natasha. They are a triangle of dysfunction, and Victor is completely, utterly alone in his truth.

The argument escalates, a tornado of accusations and denials. "You've embarrassed me for the last time, Victor! I want you out of this house tonight!" Esther shrieks, her voice raw.

"Use your head, woman! Why would I risk everything? Someone is trying to destroy me!" he bellows back, his face purple with rage.

"Maybe because you're a selfish, pathetic man who never knew when he had it good!" Ethan snarls, adding fuel to the fire. He rubs his forehead in annoyance. "The company's sales are going down."

Esther, overwhelmed, turns and storms up the grand staircase, sobbing about calling her lawyer. "I'm done! I am finally done!"

"Esther, wait! Please!" Victor pleads, rushing after her. On the landing, he grabs her wrist, trying to force her to look at him.

"Don't you touch me!" she screams, shaking her arm away with a fierce, violent jerk.

The motion throws Victor off balance. His expensive loafers slip on the polished wood.

My eyes widen a little, my feet rising from my seat on their own as I watch, utterly transfixed. It happens in a horrifying, slow-motion instant. Victor Croft flails, his arms windmilling uselessly. Then he pitches forward. His body tumbles down the long, curved staircase, hitting each step with a series of sickening, heavy thuds. He lands in a broken, motionless heap at the bottom, his head resting at an unnatural angle against the cold marble.

This was not in the plan.

But... fuck.

I can't stop the smile that creeps across my face. A sense of dark, profound satisfaction washes over me, so intense it steals my breath. This turned out better than I ever thought.

On the screen, Esther freezes at the top of the stairs, her hands flying to her mouth. A second later, a blood-curdling, primal scream of pure panic rips through the speakers of my computer.

"VICTOR!"

But, well... Victor does not respond. A dark, crimson pool begins to spread around his head, stark against the pale marble. Ethan rushes to his father's side, his own panic rising. The mother and son cry his name over and over, as if their sheer desperation could rewind the last minute and wake him up. Idiots.

"I-I'll call an ambulance!" Ethan stammers, fumbling for his phone with shaking hands. Esther just nods, her body trembling, tears streaming down her face in a perfect performance of shock and grief.

I've seen enough. I close the live feed and lean back in my chair, a profound, chilling satisfaction settling deep in my bones. I was meant to torture Victor a bit more, to draw out his public humiliation, but I suppose this was fine, too. It was... efficient.

I dial Alexander's number. He picks up on the second ring, his voice a low, steady rumble. "How did it go?" He already knew I was executing the first phase today; I'd sent him a text earlier.

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face as I look out at the burning colors of the sunset. "It went better than I imagined," I tell him, my voice light. "The scandal broke. They had a massive fight. And Victor... he took a rather nasty fall down the main staircase. It looked very serious. The ambulance is on its way."

I can almost hear his smirk through the phone. "A fall? How... unfortunate for him." He pauses, and I can picture him lounging back, already plotting. "So, since he's going to be in the hospital for a while... why not drag it out a little longer?"

A cold shiver runs down my spine. "What are you implying?" I ask, even though I can already guess. I know my brother. The quiet, calculating rage he carries is far more ruthless than my own burning fire. He hates the Crofts with a depth that sometimes frightens even me.

His voice is casual, almost lazy, as he suggests. "You know... we could always cook something up in his IV. Nothing too obvious. Just a little something to ensure he stays in that hospital bed forever. A permanent... complication."

The line goes silent and I think about it for a second-a single, suspended moment where the ghost of Daphne Ashford flickers to life inside me. Daphne would have been horrified. Daphne would have gasped, her hand flying to her heart. She would have never agreed to this, never even entertained the thought of cold-blooded murder. She was all soft and believing in second chances.

But Daphne is gone. She was left in the fire, a sacrifice to my own naivety. The woman I am now is carved from colder, harder stone. She cares about nothing but the sweet, slow taste of revenge. She looks at the world and sees a ledger that must be balanced, drop for drop.

The ghost of Daphne vanishes, extinguished by the memory of smoke and betrayal.

A strange calm settles over me as I reply, "Yes, I'll make sure Victor Croft stays in the bed forever."