Chapter 4: The ghost on the screen

The ballroom went completely still. No movement, no voices, every eye in the room was fixed on the massive screen above the stage, and reality smiling down at them.

Mildred felt the blood drain from her face. This wasn’t possible, and yet, there he was. Anthony Frank. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his left eyebrow, those same dark eyes that had once made her feel safe, there was no mistake.

For five years, she had believed he was dead. She had mourned him, hated him, and buried every memory beneath layers of anger and ambition, now he stood before her again, smiling, as if death itself had simply stepped aside for him.

“Good evening, Mildred,” his voice carried through the speakers, smooth and calm, laced with quiet amusement. Around her, confusion broke out instantly. “Who is that, what’s going on, is this part of the program?” Mildred barely heard any of it, her pulse thundered too loudly.

Beside her, Jack had gone completely pale. Even James’s carefully controlled expression had sharpened, his attention locking onto the screen with a new, dangerous focus. He was piecing things together and realizing this was far more than a corporate move.

Onscreen, Anthony tilted his head slightly. “If you’re seeing this,” he said, “then it means you’ve finally come home.” Mildred’s fingers curled tightly at her sides, no, this couldn’t be happening. “Five years is a long time to wait,” he went on, almost thoughtfully, “but some endings take patience.”

The screen flickered. His smile widened, “you wanted revenge, Mildred.” His voice dropped, softer now. Heavier, “now you’ll have the truth.” The screen went black. A sharp gasp rippled through the room, then the lights snapped back on and everything fell apart.

Voices rose all at once. Guests broke into frantic conversations. Reporters rushed forward. Security scattered, trying to trace the source of the broadcast, but Mildred didn’t move, because she understood exactly what Anthony meant, and if he was really alive, then everything she believed about that night might be wrong.

“Mildred,” James’s voice cut in, close and firm. She turned. He was watching her with unsettling intensity, “who is Anthony Frank?” The question hit hard. She forced her breathing steady, “It doesn’t concern you.” “It does if someone just hijacked my family’s event.” “This is personal.” “That’s exactly why it concerns me.”

Before she could respond, Jack stepped forward, “we need to leave.” Mildred’s eyes snapped to him, “why?” His throat moved as he swallowed, because he was afraid, and Jack Knight wasn’t a man who scared easily. “He knows things.”

The strain in his voice sent a chill through her, “what things?” Jack glanced around, too many people, too many ears. “Not here.” Mildred’s patience snapped, she grabbed his arm, “start talking.” For a second, real panic flashed across his face, then he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “You were never his intended victim.”

The words hit like a blow, her grip loosened immediately. The world tilted. No, that didn’t make sense, it couldn’t, but the look in Jack’s eyes told her he believed it. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, a loud crash split the air from above, screams erupted, heads snapped upward, then a body hit the marble floor hard. The sickening impact silenced the room instantly. Mildred stared, her breath catching. The man lay twisted, unmoving. Blood spread beneath him in a slow, dark pool.

In his hand, a white envelope. Security rushed forward, voices sharp, urgent. James moved at once, his entire demeanor shifting into cold command, “clear the area, now.” The envelope slipped from the man’s grasp and landed face-up on the polished floor. Bold black letters stared up at her. Mildred, her name.