Uninvited Ghosts

A week later, ​​we're in my car heading toward the charity gala. Clare is sitting next to me, staring out the window, absolutely silent, yet the silence is telling.

​The subtle tightening of her jaw and the way she refuses to look me in the eyes make it clear that she's currently swimming in shame, a feeling I desperately want to erase from her dictionary.

​I had arrived unannounced at her apartment earlier that evening to pick her up. For a terrifying fraction of a second, standing in the cramped, dimly lit hallway of the decaying brick complex, I thought my driver had punched in the wrong address. But no, it was hers.

​The building smelled faintly of damp concrete and boiled cabbage. Inside her flat, the peeling floral wallpaper hung like dead skin from the corners of the ceiling, stained by years of water leaks from the unit above. A single, rickety bookshelf bowed under the weight of law texts and romance novels, and the linoleum kitchen floor was scuffed down to its dark underlayers. It was a stark, jarring reminder of a world I crawled my way out of a decade ago, and a world she was fighting tooth and nail just to survive in.

​She clears her throat beside me, breaking the heavy silence, refusing to look my way.

​"If you're going to make a comment about my living arrangements, Mr. Vance, save your breath," she mutters, her voice tight with defensive pride. "Not all of us live in glass-walled penthouses overlooking the skyline."

​I keep my eyes locked on the dark, wet asphalt stretching ahead of our headlights, my jaw tightening.

​"I wasn't going to say a word, Miss Hayes," I reply, my voice dangerously low. "Though you might want to invest in a decent landlord. Or better yet... a promotion.”

​I clear my throat and turn my head to look at her. “And I think it would be best for you to call me by my first name....Clare,” I murmur, her name tasting like forbidden fruit on my tongue. Her breath hitches, a jagged, sharp sound she desperately tries to hide behind a cough, her shoulders stiffening against the leather seat.

​“That wasn't part of the contract, Mr. Vance,” she manages to choke out, keeping her gaze stubbornly fixed on the rain-streaked window.

​“Contracts can be amended,” I reply smoothly, my eyes tracing the rigid line of her jaw. “And if we are going to convince a room full of skeptical sharks that we are genuinely involved, calling your boss by his surname while sharing a bed, or a public gala, is going to blow our cover in five minutes.”

​She finally turns her head to glare at me, her cheeks flushed with a mix of indignation and something far more dangerous. “We are not sharing a bed.”

​“We might have to, eventually,” I say, a slow, dark smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth just to watch her unravel completely.

​She turns to look at me, her hazel eyes wide with mortification. God, she has beautiful eyes.

​“Auf gar keinen Fall,” she hisses, slipping into German as she always does when she's flustered. “There is absolutely nothing that would require us to share a bed. We both agreed: absolutely no sex. We might have to kiss if we're in public to keep up appearances, but no sex.”

​I watch the flush creeping up her neck, my fingers twitching with the urge to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

​“Who said I was talking about sex, Clare?” I whisper.

​Before she can answer, the driver clears his throat. “Mr. Vance, we have arrived,” he announces.

​I get out of the car and walk a few steps before I suddenly realize she isn't following. I glance back, a scowl already playing on my face as I catch sight of her stubbornly sitting in the back seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. I realize with a jolt that she's waiting for me to open the door for her.

​Little vixen, I mutter under my breath as I retrace my steps, pull the door open, and offer her my hand.

​She smirks discreetly as she takes my hand. “And they say chivalry is dead,” she remarks as she steps out. I lead her towards the entrance.

​“You look gorgeous, darling,” I murmur directly against her ear, hoping to catch sight of that magnificent flush again. Instead, she rolls her eyes subtly. “You don't look so bad yourself,” she murmurs back. “Truly, it's a wonder what a shower can do for a person.”

​I can't help but let out a low, gravelly chuckle at her audacity.

​“Keep that spirit of yours intact for when we actually get inside, Clare. God knows, you're going to need it,” I murmur, pulling her just a fraction closer.

​The doors swing inward as we approach them, the conversation dying a quick, swift death as we step inside hand-in-hand.

​It starts from the ones standing next to the door and travels all the way across the room.

​Heads turn, every eye in the room locking onto the sight of the terrifying CEO and his secretary. But I do not care, nor do I spare them a glance.

​Clare doesn't hesitate. She drops her hand from my arm and laces her fingers through mine.

​My breath hitches—a choked gasp I manage to swallow down at the last second—as I feel her warm, small fingers slide between my cold, long ones.

​Almost instantly, a heavy heat starts spooling downward.

​No, I growl inwards. This is not happening. I am not going to lose my composure just because she's holding my hand. I am a gentleman; I cannot. This cannot be happening in a room full of vultures, waiting for any chance to strike me down.

​Clare, sensing my absolute distress, tilts her head and offers me a smile, revealing the dimples carving deep hollows into her cheeks, making her look innocent and completely sinful at the same time.

​“Everything alright, my love?” the term of endearment slipping through her lips like it's the most natural thing in the world, her voice loud enough to carry across the now completely silent room.

​A man chokes on his wine, and another’s jaw drops, yet I cannot tear my eyes away from the sight of the woman next to me, the woman who has suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room.

​“Everything's just fine,” I finally manage to croak out, my gaze dropping involuntarily to her lips before I force them back to her eyes.

​I lead her further into the room, my hand tightening around hers as I realize that they haven't cleared a space for her next to me.

​I glare at a waiter lurking in the shadows, trying desperately to fuse with the wall behind him, and he immediately moves, freeing up a seat for her.

​“Thank you,” she smiles at the waiter, and a wave of possessiveness so potent it terrifies me tears through my veins. Her smiles belong to me. Her voice shouldn't be heard by anyone but me.

​I swallow back the surge of jealousy and pull out the seat for her, watching intently as she takes it, her shoulders brushing mine.

​I take the seat next to her and immediately reach for her hand again.

​My thumb brushes softly across her knuckles, a gesture that feels terrifyingly vulnerable, yet completely inevitable.

​I can feel the stares of the board of directors from across the room, their urge to cross the distance between us and demand to know what kind of sick joke we're playing palpable in the air.

​Soon enough, the head of the board separates from the room and walks towards us.

​“Mr. Vance,” he says, his eyes darting between us. “Miss Hayes. How kind of you to join us. And you're… together?” His voice drops in disbelief on the last word.

​I turn my gaze sharply towards him, arching a brow. “What does it look like to you, Mr. Ralph? If your eyesight is failing you, I would strongly advise you to see an eye doctor.”

​I watch, satisfied as a deep crimson flush of embarrassment spreads across his pale face.

​“M-m-my apologies, Mr. Vance,” he stammers, “I... well, forgive me, enjoy your evening,” before practically fleeing back to his little clan of mediocre people.

​I hear the door opening again a few moments later, but don't turn my head, my attention fully occupied by Clare, who's currently sampling the wine a waiter brought over.

​Suddenly, I feel Clare stiffen beside me. I finally lift my head to look at who just entered the room, only to be met with the face of her ex-partner.