Ghosts in the Hallways

Killian’s POV

The back seat of the Maybach feels cold and suffocating as the city lights blur into long, chaotic streaks of gold and red outside. Beside me sits Marcus, my chief of staff and the only man left who still dares to call himself my friend.

Tonight is the Hawthorne Group’s annual gala, an evening drowning in fake smiles, old money, and corporate vultures waiting for blood. If it were up to me, I would spend the night locked in my top-floor office, drowning in financial reports until my eyes burned. But as the CEO, showing my face isn't optional. It is mandatory.

The harsh vibration of my phone shatters the silence in the cabin.

"Killian, you really should answer this. She’s been calling non-stop since morning," Marcus says, turning the glowing screen toward me.

The name displaying on the screen makes my jaw tighten.

 Calista.

I growl inwardly as I stare at the caller ID. We have been married for four years now, and I can state without hesitation that it’s the single worst decision of my life. She is relentlessly demanding, possessive, and constantly begging for an affection I simply do not possess. She knows precisely why I married her, yet she constantly pretends to forget.

"Decline it," I order, my voice flat as I keep my eyes back to the dark highway.

Marcus lets out a long, tired sigh. "Come on, Killian. Just answer her this once. She misses you. You haven't been back to the estate in two days."

"I am not in the mood for her drama tonight, Marcus," I cut in, shutting him down instantly. "I’ll see her inside when we get to the party. That’s more than enough."

Before the screen can fade, another incoming call flashes across the interface. Marcus glances at the display and winces. "It's your mother."

A heavy, dark groan escapes my chest as I close my eyes against the pounding in my temples. "Turn the damn phone off."

"Killian…”

"I said turn it off, Marcus!"

Recognizing the dangerous edge in my voice, Marcus quietly shuts the device down and tosses it onto his lap.

"I don't understand you anymore," he mutters, shaking his head with a frustrated exhale. "You’ve been living like a ghost for four years, pushing away every single person who tries to care about you. Isn't it time you move on and forget about Cass…."

"Finish that sentence, Marcus, and see what happens," I interject. My voice drops low and deathly quiet, a sharp warning hanging in the air between us.

"It's the truth, Killian!" Marcus pushes on, refusing to yield entirely. "You're shutting out the entire world because you refuse to let go of a woman who destroyed you. You married Calista of your own free will nobody held a gun to your head. Yet you treat her like an unwelcome shadow. She’s your wife, Killian. She deserves at least a fraction of your effort."

I turn my head back toward the window, clenching my jaw so hard my teeth ache.

Cassandra.

Just the sound of her name sends a dark, suffocating wave of fury crashing through my chest. I hate her. I hate how utterly deceitful she was. I hate how effortlessly she betrayed me, threw away my devotion, and ran into away with another man. My hand grips the leather armrest so tightly the seams strain. I pray she was smart enough to stay hidden wherever she fled, because if she ever crosses my path again, I am not sure what I will do to her.

"Killian? Are you even listening to me?" Marcus keeps talking, sounding just like Calista, always complaining, always demanding something I cannot give.

Without a word, I reach into my tuxedo jacket, pull out my wireless earbuds, and slip them in. I activate noise cancellation, drowning out his voice in absolute silence.

Ten minutes later, the Maybach glides to a smooth halt beneath the grand portico of the venue. Valets hurry forward to open the doors.

I step out into the cool evening air without sparing them a glance. The main entrance is already swarming with blinding flashbulbs, shouting reporters, and high-society guests exchanging meaningless pleasantries. I have zero patience for their hollow greetings tonight. Turning on my heel, I bypass the red carpet entirely and head for the private side entrance.

"Go on through the front and find Calista," I tell Marcus, tapping my earbud to turn off the audio. "Tell her I'll be inside shortly. I'm taking the back corridor."

Marcus gives a brief, tight nod and walks away toward the press line.

I walk down the quiet, carpeted hallway, grateful for the momentary solitude before I am forced to step into the lions' den. The heavy bass of the orchestra inside vibrates faintly through the walls. But just as I round the corner near the executive lounge, a figure steps directly into my path.

We collide hard.

The impact knocks her off balance. Her high heel slips on the polished marble floor, and she stumbles backward. Instantly, my arm shoots out, my hand clamping firmly around her waist. I catch her before she can hit the ground, pulling her flush against my chest.

"I’m so sorry…" she gasps softly, her breath hitching in her throat.

The sound of that voice freezes the blood in my veins.

My heart stops for a second, then detonates against my ribs. It is a voice I know in my very marrow—a voice that has haunted every nightmare, every sleepless night, and every bitter moment of the last four years.

Slowly, she lifts her head, and a pair of striking, ocean-blue eyes lock directly onto mine.

A sudden, sharp flash of sheer terror flickers across her face, so fast a less observant man would have missed it. But within a heart-beat, she smooths it over, locking her features behind a mask of cold, polite expression.

I do not release her waist. My fingers refuse to unlock. Everything about her, the soft sound of her voice, the shades of her eyes, the sudden electric tension humming through her body is so familiar to me. She presses her palms against my chest, attempting to push away, but my grip only tightens, pulling her more to me.

"Cassandra?" I breathe, the name tearing from my throat as a low, desperate whisper.