One Hundred And Eleven

They both stood up as Christian instinctively moved forward, his eyes narrowing like a blade searching for the truth in the flesh before him.

But the woman who stepped in wasn’t the Ilda they once knew.

She was a ghost.

A shell wrapped in faded fabric and regret.

Her once radiant skin, the kind that shimmered under office lights and red carpets alike, now bore the weight of sleepless nights. Soft dark circles framed her eyes, her cheeks hollowed slightly, giving her the haunted look of someone who had bargained endlessly with guilt—and lost. Her once-powerful posture had withered into something unsure, uncertain… as if the floor beneath her feet might give way with every step.

She wore a faded beige coat, the threads beginning to fray near the cuffs, draped over a pale blue dress that looked two sizes too big, either from weight loss or from not caring. Her dress clung awkwardly to her form, a desperate attempt at dignity.

She clutched the strap of a worn, cracked handbag so tightly