Facing my fears

ARIA

New York City looked the same as ever. I used to come here for business trips and conferences.

The wind whipping down the Fifth avenue was biting, cutting through my silk coat. The traffic was a deafening roar, drowning out my thoughts. The city moved with the same rhythm it always had, completely indifferent to the fact that Elara Vance—the woman whose family name was painted on half the trucks driving by—had been erased from the earth three years ago.

I stood outside the gold revolving doors of the Pierre Hotel, where Mark was hosting the gala, clutching my phone like it was the only thing keeping me upright. My heart wasn't just beating; it was violently throwing itself against my ribs, trying to escape.

Buzz.

My phone vibrated in my freezing hand. The phone I was clutching so tight lit up and rang in my grip, I answered it before the second ring.

“Have you landed?” Maya asked as soon as I picked up.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Are you at the venue already?” she asked.

“Yes, Maya. I’m standing outside,” I said softly. “But I feel so scared… Everything here reminds me of my past.”

There was a heartbeat of silence before her tone shifted.

“You’re spiraling,” Maya’s voice came through the speaker. She just knew.

No soft landing or sugarcoating — just the truth — because Maya always knew when I was coming undone.

"I’m not spiraling," I lied, turning my back to the doorman so he wouldn't see my shaking hands. "I’m just... waiting for the right moment."

"You’re lying," Maya whispered. The softness in her voice hurt more than if she had yelled. "I can hear your breathing, Aria. You’re panting. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Maya asked.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “This is my only shot, Maya. If I walk in there and he recognizes me… everything I’ve worked for these last three years goes up in smoke. I won't get my revenge or justice either. Just me—exposed.”

“He won’t recognize you,” Maya said firmly. “He buried Elara. He’s not expecting a ghost to walk through that door.”

"I feel like I’m back in the ravine," I confessed, my voice cracking. "I feel the fire, mud and the cold."

"Then use the cold," Maya commanded. "Freeze your heart, Aria. Don't let him see you bleed. You bought that dress to go to war, not to a funeral. Now hang up and go get him."

The line went dead.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. The freezing air burned my lungs, grounding me. I wasn't in the ravine. I was on Fifth Avenue. I dropped the phone into my clutch, smoothed the blood-red fabric of my gown, and turned around.

The doorman pulled the handle. "Welcome to the Pierre, Ma'am."

I walked in with my head high, owning the space.

**************************************

The ballroom was a shark tank disguised as a party.

The heat hit me first, suffocating and smelling of expensive lilies, old money, and corporate greed. Five hundred people in black tuxedos and designer gowns were packed into the space, holding crystal flutes of champagne. But they weren't smiling.

Their eyes were darting around, assessing, calculating, looking for the next kill.

I stayed in the shadows of the archway. I needed a moment. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through water.

Then I saw him.

Mark.

He stood on a raised platform in the center of the room, bathed in a white spotlight. He looked older—his jawline a little softer, his hairline receding just a fraction—but he carried himself with the arrogance of a king.

He was wearing a custom tuxedo that fit too perfectly, likely Italian, paid for with the money he siphoned from my trust fund and right next to him, clutching his bicep like she was afraid he might float away, was Zane.

She was wearing white. It was a deliberate, cruel choice. A sleek, bridal-white column dress that screamed "I won." On her finger, catching the stage lights every time she moved her hand, was my grandmother’s diamond ring.

I felt a flash of heat—pure, unadulterated rage—but I swallowed it down. Elara, focus. That's not why you're here.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mark’s voice boomed over the speakers. He flashed that charming, boyish smile that had fooled me for two years. "Thank you all for coming. Tonight isn't just a party. It’s a statement. Vance Logistics is entering a new era."

He paused, his face falling into a mask of practiced sadness.

"It hasn't been easy," he said softly. "After my fiancée... left us... I had to carry this weight alone. But I did it for her legacy."

A murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd.

Liar. The word echoed in my skull. You didn't carry the weight. You killed and buried it.

Mark brightened up, shaking off the fake grief. "But tonight is about the future! We are expanding to Asia and I am looking for a partner. A visionary. We are opening the floor for the lead investment bid. The buy-in starts at five million dollars."

I frowned, staying hidden in the shadows.

Five million?

That was dangerously low. For a company claiming to be a billion-dollar empire, five million was pocket change. It was an act of desperation.

Is he in any kind trouble? I guessed, a dark thrill shooting through me. He’s drained the accounts. The empire is a shell.

"Five million!" a heavy-set man in the front row stood up. I recognized him from my research. Mr. Henderson. An old-school investor who had bullied my father for years and had sided with Mark immediately after my "death." He was arrogant, loud, and stupid. He shot his hand up. "I’m in!"

Mark beamed. "Henderson! Good man. Do I hear six?"

"Six million!" A tech CEO shouted from the back.

"Seven!" Henderson yelled back, sweating.

"Ten million!" A woman in a gold dress stood up. The room gasped.

Mark looked ecstatic. He was vibrating with excitement on stage. "Ten million! Going once..."

My heart hammered in my throat. This was it. The point of no return.

I stepped out of the shadows.

"Twenty-five million."

My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a gunshot.

The silence was instant. The music stopped, waiters froze. Every single head turned to look at the back of the room.

Mark dropped his gavel. It clattered loudly on the stage.

I started walking.

I moved down the center aisle. My heels clicked rhythmically on the marble floor—click, click, click—echoing in the silence. I kept my chin high, my eyes locked on the stage. I could feel the gaze of the room on me—judging, calculating, terrified.

Twenty-five million. I was gambling my entire new life on this one move. If he refused, or if this was a trap, I was finished.

"Twenty-five million?" Henderson sputtered, breaking the silence. "Who is this? Is this a joke?"

I stopped right in front of him. I towered over him in my heels.

"It’s not a joke," I said, my voice ice-cold. "It’s a takeover. You’re in my seat."

Henderson looked at Mark for help.

But Mark wasn't looking at Henderson. He wasn't looking at Zane. He was looking at me.

He stared at me like a starving wolf. He didn't see a woman; he saw a jackpot. He practically shoved Zane aside to get down the stairs, leaving her standing alone on stage looking like a fool.

He walked straight toward me. The crowd parted.

He stopped inches away. Up close, the smell of him hit me—sandalwood and greed. It made my stomach twist, threatening to bring up the bile, but I forced myself to stand my ground.

Mark looked me up and down. He took in the red dress, the sharp angles of my new face, the coldness in my eyes. He licked his lips.

"I don't believe we've met," he said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr.

He reached out and took my hand.

His skin was warm. Mine was freezing.

I didn't pull away. I gripped his hand hard.

"I’m Aria," I said.

Mark froze.

He didn't let go of my hand. He squeezed it, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. His confident smile faltered. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

He looked down at our joined hands. Then he snapped his gaze up to my eyes.

The air between us crackled with tension. He wasn't charmed anymore. He looked unsettled. He looked... haunted.

He stepped closer, invading my personal space, ignoring the hundreds of people watching us. He watched the way I stood, with one hip slightly cocked. He watched the way I blinked, slow and deliberate.

"Aria..." he whispered, his voice shaking slightly.

He didn't blink. He just stared into my eyes, a look of terrifying recognition dawning on his face. Not of my face—but of my soul.

"That's strange," Mark murmured, tightening his grip on my hand until it hurt. "Your walk... the rhythm of your steps... and the way your eyes move when you're challenging someone."

He leaned in, his breath hitting my cheek.

"Have we met before?"