A living ghost (chapt.7)

Alessia's POV.

Silence, thick as winter, heavy as a seal, fell over the boardroom at Daniel's words, its length brief — a beat hung in suspended time — before it exploded like a thunderclap.

"The votes have been counted," Daniel's voice thundered through the boardroom, resolute and distinct. "By majority vote. Alessia De Luca is still CEO of Romanov Industries."

No one shifted for a suspended beat.

Then — soft at first — the noise of muffled cheers, solitary applause rippling like a testing tide. Relief washed through the room — testing, shuddering — and I breathed out past my lips, not quite firm, but not quite shaken. Still white from clutching the table edge, my knuckles unwound.

This was victory.

No, it wasn't.

This was survival.

But I sensed him before I saw him.

Nikolai.

The weight of his gaze crept over my skin — silk with the edges of blades. I looked up, and he was already moving — calm, unhurried — slicing through the crowd with ghastly poise. His l black suit clung to every lethal shape of his body, sin pulled into human form.

And his eyes — God, his eyes — looked up at mine with something altogether too dangerous to qualify as defeat.

Admiration.

Warning.

Possession.

He stood inches from me — close enough that I caught the faintest whiff of his smell — something dark and sinful, like charred woods and sin. His voice was low and rough, smooth but underlaid with iron.

"Keep your throne, regina," he breathed, his accent curling around the word like a velvet threat. "But when the years on that contract run out… if you haven't paid off your father's debt…" His lips curled — a ghost smile, merciless. "This company will belong to me. And this time, no clause can you save you from handing over everything to me baby girl.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

I did not blink.

I would not.

I lifted my chin, letting my eyes glaze — fires burning behind my mask.

"Then you'd better pray, Mr. Volkov," I panted, my voice a knife wrapped in silk, "that I don't make you regret ever signing that contract."

For an instant — a heartbeat — the corners of his mouth trembled. Approval? Interest? Madness? I couldn't tell.

And then — abruptly — he turned.

Walked away.

Left behind that heady aroma of him — power, danger, darkness.

The war wasn't over.

It had just begun.

Minutes passed after that.

Employees' congratulations — restraint in their voices, deference in their eyes. Daniel tapped my shoulder with muted pride. I stood among them — gracious, composed — but my heart hadn't stopped beating like crazy.

It wouldn't.

Not when every move I took walked a high-wire above a den of wolves.

And then —

"Boss!"

A voice I knew — clear, singing — cut through the haze.

I turned just in time to see Sophia Moretti practically skip toward me — golden brown hair bouncing, her grin impossibly wide. The moment she reached me, she flung her arms around me in an almost childlike hug.

“You did it!” she breathed against my shoulder. “I knew it! Knew you’d crush him. I knew you would defeat him! You have never lost to anyone! I’m so proud of you, look at you standing all tall and CEO’y.”

A small laugh escaped me — hoarse, but real.

“I’m still standing, aren’t I? Even though my support vanished last minute.”

She recoiled, eyes sparkling. "I was going to send you a text but I had to meet up with an old friend — God, I hate that I missed the vote."

I brushed her away. "It's fine. You're here now. And I could do with tea… or vodka."

Sophia chuckled. "Tea first. Vodka tonight."

A quarter of an hour elapsed before we slunk away into a snug, hidden corner of my favorite tea house — a small, cozy room wedged between two giant marble buildings near the center of Milan.

A mist of steam curled up from delicate porcelain cups resting between us, the gentle murmur of conversation drowned out by the thud of my mind.

I slumped back, exhaustion seeping into my marrow, but my gaze remained on Sophia — noticing for the first time how her smile didn't reach her eyes.

Something was wrong with her.

Something wasn't right.

I frowned. "Who was the friend?"

She blinked — too quickly.

"Hmm?"

"The friend you met today," I prodded gently. "Sophia, I've known you forever. You don't have friends I don't know about."

Her fingers wrapped around her cup a little tighter.

Silence.

A beat.

Then another.

Air changed — dense — like massed stormclouds over smooth water.

"Sophia," I whispered hard, my heart beating faster, "what's it?"

She paused.

Guilt, possibly, pain lit across her sharp features — or fear.

"Please," I breathed, "don't shut me out."

Another second went by.

And then — unspoken — she took something out of her purse and slid a creased photo across the tabletop.

"Don't hate me for not telling you sooner," she said, shaking, her voice barely audible. "I only found out a few days ago… I had to be sure. And you are busy with the company ans the whole court case

I scrunched up my face, picking it up — opening it.

And the world dropped out from underneath me.

It was a photograph.

Taken at an airport.

But all that did not matter.

Because standing in the middle — where dark glasses crested, one hand loose deep in the pocket of a too-familiar leather jacket — was a specter.

No.

Not a specter.

Him.

My ex.

The man I grieved in my heart all those years ago.

The man I believed was meant to be dead.

Bloodless, I was left gaping at him.

My heart did not beat rapidly — it stopped altogether.

My mouth dropped open, making absolutely no noise whatsoever.

There was a shiver that traveled down my arm.

This made no sense.

He was dead.

I'd buried him in my grief — in my rage — in every sleepless night I ripped my way through.

And yet---

There he was.

Alive.

Very much alive.

I looked up — my dry throat — my vision blurring at the edges.

"How is this him?" I breathed, tears welling up. "He is supposed to be dead.".