The Ghost Wife

Clara's POV

The three knocks hit the wood like a gavel. My heart was not just racing; it was trying to punch its way out of my ribs.

I was paralyzed on the edge of the bed, staring at the handle. I expected Nikolai to just walk in like he owned the air I breathed, but the door stayed shut.

My hand shook so hard I could barely grip the brass. When I finally pulled it open, the hallway was empty.

Well, almost empty.

A maid stood there, head bowed, holding a vase of roses. Not just any roses.

They were a deep, earthy chestnut. My favorite.

The exact ones Nikolai used to buy me when we had nothing but a cramped apartment and a dream of a life that did not involve this nightmare.

The maid handed them over without a word and disappeared into the shadows of the mansion. There was no note.

He did not need a note. The scent alone was a scream from the past.

Are you kidding me right now? This was sick.

He was not just stalking me; he was weaponizing my own nostalgia. He was taking the only good things I had left and turning them into threats.

I set the vase on the vanity and the smell filled the room, thick and suffocating. It felt like he was in there with me, watching my reaction.

Wait. Was he?

The thought hit me like a bucket of ice water. Victor had mentioned security, but Nikolai was the one who knew how to hide things in plain sight.

I started with the mirrors, running my fingers along the gold leaf frames. Then I moved to the smoke detector, the vents, even the tiny gaps in the crown molding.

Every little shadow looked like a lens. Every creak in the floorboard sounded like a recording starting up.

I was on my hands and knees checking the underside of the vanity when I realized how insane I looked. He was winning.

He had turned my sanctuary into an interrogation room, and I had not even seen his face yet today.

I needed to get out of this room. I needed to move.

I grabbed my bag and headed toward the East Wing. Victor’s "charity project" was supposed to be my escape, my way to be a ghost in this house.

But the grand foyer was already occupied.

Camille Quinn was standing by the fountain, looking like she had stepped off a runway. Platinum blonde hair, grey eyes that looked like polished stone, and a smile that did not reach her face.

Ugh, please. Not today.

"Clara! You look... cozy," she said, her gaze scanning my simple dress like it was a rag.

"Good morning, Camille," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

She stepped closer, the scent of her expensive perfume clashing with the ghost of the roses in my hair. "I was just waiting for Nikolai. He’s so excited to be back in the city, you know?"

She said it with this condescending sweetness that felt like a razor blade across my skin.

"We’re heading out for a late lunch. He says he needs a distraction from all the... family drama," she added, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

Hell nah. The sting was immediate, and it was sharper than I wanted to admit.

He had just been in my bed, or rather, pinning me against my dressing table, and now he was playing the perfect bachelor for the heiress.

He was moving on with a woman who actually fit this world while he kept me trapped in the basement of our old memories.

"That's nice. I'm busy with the foundation," I muttered, trying to push past her.

"Of course. It’s so sweet that Victor gives you little hobbies to keep you occupied," she called out after me.

I did not look back. I could not.

I made it to the East Wing, my heels clicking loudly against the marble. My new office was at the very end of the hall, a place Victor had promised would be quiet.

I pushed the door open, expecting dust and empty shelves.

Instead, I found him.

Nikolai was leaning against my desk, his ankles crossed, looking entirely too comfortable. He was flipping through a leather portfolio.

My heart stopped. Those were my university sketches.

The ones I thought were lost when the loan sharks trashed our old place.

"You were always so talented, Clara," he said without looking up. "A real eye for detail."

"Give those back," I snapped, reaching for the book.

He lifted it high above his head, forcing me to step into his space. "I found these in storage. Funny how you managed to save your art but forgot to save us."

"You have no right to touch my things, Nikolai. Get out."

He tossed the portfolio onto the desk and stood up, his height instantly making the room feel small.

"This 'philanthropy' of yours... it's cute," he mocked, circling the desk. "A nice coat of paint over a gold digger soul. Does it make you feel better about yourself?"

"Victor wants me to have a purpose. Why does that bother you so much?"

He stopped right in front of me, so close I could see the flecks of dark anger in his blue eyes.

"Because you don't get a fresh start," he whispered. "Not while I'm still paying for your sins."

I reached for the sketches again, but his hand shot out, catching my wrists. He did not squeeze, but the grip was absolute.

The temperature in the room felt like it had just jumped twenty degrees. My skin was buzzing where he touched me, and I hated it.

I hated that my body remembered him even when my mind was screaming for him to leave.

"Let go," I breathed, my voice failing me again.

"Remember one thing, stepmother," he said, his thumb brushing against my pulse point. "Victor might own the name on the front of this building, but I own this wing. There is nowhere in this house where you are safe from me."

He dropped my hands and walked out, leaving the door swinging.

I sank into the office chair, my breath coming in jagged hitches. I was shaking so hard I had to grip the armrests.

He was everywhere. He was the roses, he was the shadows, he was the man standing in my way before I could even begin to breathe.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was an emotional wreck, but I had to play the part.

The dining hall was set for four. Victor at the head, Camille and Nikolai on one side, and me across from them.

Victor was in a great mood, talking about the foundation and how "kind hearted" his wife was.

"I've always said, Camille, a woman with a mission is a force to be reckoned with," Victor said, beaming at me.

I tried to smile, but it felt like my face was made of glass and about to shatter.

Across from me, Nikolai was being the perfect gentleman. He was attentive to Camille, nodding at her stories about the equestrian club and her father’s latest acquisitions.

But his eyes kept sliding to me. Cold. Calculating.

And then I felt it.

A foot brushed against my ankle under the table. I tried to pull back, but he was faster.

He pinned my ankle down with the heel of his shoe, firm enough that I could not move without making a scene.

I gasped, the sound lost in Camille’s laugh.

"Are you alright, Clara? You look a bit flushed," Camille said, her grey eyes narrowed.

"I'm fine. Just... the soup is a bit hot," I lied, my knuckles turning white as I gripped my spoon.

Nikolai did not let go. He kept the pressure steady, a silent reminder that he was in control of my body even while he was smiling at another woman.

"Nikolai and I were just saying how we have such a... perfect connection," Camille gushed, resting her hand on his arm. "It’s like we speak the same language."

Nikolai looked at her and then shifted his gaze to me. "We do, Camille. It’s rare to find someone who doesn't hide who they really are."

The bile rose in my throat. He was doing it.

He was punishing me and replacing me at the same time, all while Victor sat there praising my "purity."

I had to sit there, pinned and silent, watching him play house with a woman who hated me.

I was losing. I was losing the war, I was losing my mind, and I was losing the girl I used to be.

When lunch finally ended and they stood up to leave, Nikolai finally released my foot.

He did not look back as he led Camille out toward the gardens.

I was left at the table with Victor, who was still talking about business, oblivious to the fact that his son had just spent the last hour suffocating me in plain sight.

I looked down at my plate. The food was untouched.

I was not a wife. I was not a co-owner. I was just a ghost haunting a house that Nikolai had already conquered.