Chapter Seven: The Test Of Masks

Leonardo's POV 

If she's here with a game card, well I might just have to see how she's good with her games. Her eyes didn’t flicker, not a twitch, not a stumble. If she was shaken by my question, she wore it like armor, stone cold, rigid and certainly unreadable. 

“I’ve worked for high-journaling agencies sir,” she replied, her tone even, clipped, professional. “It’s possible you might have seen me while I was gathering reports. Besides, people often say I have a familiar face, but I’m sure I’ve never seen you before… except in the photos and articles on the Internet of course.”

Curt, Clean, Practiced. Not what I expected to see but really impressed to hear, she's good. I leaned back in my chair, watching her carefully, not a single muscle betrayed her, no crack in the mask, if she's wearing one that is. Damn, she was good.

For a moment, I wondered if I was being unreasonable and unnecessarily paranoid. Maybe this woman really was just another ambitious professional, trying to secure a spot in Moretti Global Holdings, maybe those eyes didn’t belong to the girl from my nightmares. Maybe I had finally gone too far, and I was really being irrational, seeing ghosts where there were none.

But the memory of that night never left me. The screams. The blood. The way her small frame had laid frozen covered by a body, those wide, unblinking eyes searing themselves into my soul.

And these were the same eyes.

If she wasn’t that girl, then fate had played the cruelest trick imaginable. And if she was… then I have to give it to her, her acting skills were nothing short of genius.

I exhaled slowly, schooling my own expression into neutrality. One thing was certain, I wasn’t going to push her. 

If she was here to play a game, I wanted to see how well she could play it.

My instincts had never failed me before.

“That’s true,” I finally said, my voice steady. No point pressing further, not yet. “What’s on my schedule for today, Ms. Martins?”

Her expression remained neutral, her gaze steady. “You have a board meeting in thirty minutes with the directors. After that, a briefing with the legal team on the casino acquisition.”

I gave a small nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”

She fell in step behind me as we left the office, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. I didn’t look back, but I could feel her presence, controlled and careful, like every movement had been rehearsed. Professional. Impeccable.

In the boardroom, she slid into the chair beside me, laptop open, pen poised. Every time I glanced at her, she was already anticipating the next move, pulling up files, handing me documents before I asked, making notes with unmatched attentiveness and sharp precision, not a single wasted motion. 

If she was nervous under my stare, she didn’t show it. By the end of the day, I had to admit, she was efficient. Cold, but efficient, exactly what someone like me would need.

The hours dragged on with endless discussions, projections, and arguments. She didn’t falter once. And by the time the sun dipped low across the skyline, casting the glass windows in a fiery glow, the day had bled away.

At closing time, she gathered her things, her voice was polite, neutral, and she offered a brief “Goodnight, Mr. Moretti,” 

I only nodded, and she walked out with the same calm composure she’d carried all day. I watched her disappear through the elevator doors before finally leaving the office myself.

The mansion was quiet when I arrived, it was always quiet. I loosened my tie, poured myself a glass of scotch, and sank into the leather chair in my study. The weight of the day pressed against me, but it wasn’t the meetings that lingered in my mind. It was her eyes, always those damn eyes.

Later, in the quiet of my study at the mansion, I poured a drink and went through the day’s reports. A knock came at the door,one of my men entered, handing me a slim file.

 “Report from the investigator, sir.”

I opened it, scanning the photographs and notes. The corpse. The sterile details, Then my gaze landed on the forensic note.

A single line, but enough to make me pause.

Evidence recovered: one strand of feline hair, identified as domestic cat. Not belonging to the deceased.

“Was any cat found in sight or around the vicinity?” I asked him.

“No sir”.

I leaned back in my chair, fingers tightening on the page, a cat.

It was small, almost insignificant, but nothing in my world was insignificant.It was nothing, or maybe… everything.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that even the smallest trace can lead straight to the truth.

I shut the file slowly, a faint, humorless smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

So, the ghost left traces after all.