Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN 

The Weight of a Ghost

 

The sound of my phone cracking under Damien’s heel was the only thing that broke the ringing in my ears. The voice—that raspy, desperate tone—was a phantom I had buried under layers of grief and bleach-stained aprons.

"My mother is dead," I whispered, my voice sounding small in the vast, echoing library. "I saw her. I held her hand until it went cold in that charity ward. I paid the funeral home with the last of my savings."

Damien didn't move. He stood over the shattered remains of my past, his face unreadable. The expectant smile he had worn a moment ago had smoothed into a mask of professional cruelty.

"The Harringtons told you she was dead," he said, his voice as sharp as a scalpel. "They told the world Rose Evans succumbed to a 'broken heart' and a failing liver. It was a convenient ending for a woman who knew too many of Howard’s secrets. A tragedy to hide a crime."

I stepped back, my knees hitting the edge of the mahogany desk. The photos of me—the proof that I had been a specimen under his microscope for years—were still splayed across the floor. "You’ve been watching me. You knew she was alive this whole time? And you didn't tell me? You watched me cry at an empty grave?"

"I don't do favors, Celeste. I do business." He stepped toward me, and this time, I didn't have the strength to lift my chin. The fire that had sustained me through the dinner was dying, replaced by a cold, numbing terror. "I needed a reason to get Howard Harrington to sign over his life. A simple debt wasn't enough to break a man that arrogant. I needed something he was terrified of. I needed the one person who could put him behind bars for the rest of his miserable life. The one witness he couldn't buy."

"My mother," I breathed, the realization chilling my blood.

"Rose didn't die," Damien said, leaning in so close I could see the flecks of gold in his frozen blue eyes. "She ran. Or rather, she was hidden by someone even Howard is afraid of. But she’s been a ghost for twenty years, and tonight, she finally made a mistake. She called you because she saw the news. She saw the 'Unwanted Bride' finally being claimed."

I felt a sob rise in my throat, but I choked it back. I wouldn't cry in front of him. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. "If she’s alive, why did she tell me to run? Why did she say you married me to kill her?"

Damien’s hand reached out, not to grip my hair this time, but to trace the line of my throat. His skin was warm, a terrifying contrast to the ice in his gaze. "Because she knows me, Celeste. She knows that I don't leave loose ends. And she knows that as long as I have you, she will eventually come for you. She thinks she’s saving you. In reality, she’s just leading the hunter to the den. You aren't my wife. You're the bait in a very expensive trap."

He pulled away abruptly, the loss of his heat making me shiver. He walked over to the library’s floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the city as if he owned every light and every soul within it.

"Go to your room," he commanded. "The 'handled, quiet, and compliant' girl I described on the phone? Start acting like her. If your father or the press see a single crack in that mask tomorrow, I will ensure your mother’s 'resurrection' is very, very brief. Do you understand?"

I didn't argue. I couldn't. I turned and fled the library, my silk slides slapping against the marble floors like a frantic heartbeat.

When I reached the guest suite, Sarah and Elena were gone. The room was dark, illuminated only by the cold, blue glow of the city lights reflecting off the glass walls. I collapsed onto the bed, the expensive silk duvet feeling like lead against my skin.

Everything was a lie. My life as a maid, my mother’s death, this marriage. I was a piece of meat caught between two monsters—a father who hated my existence and a husband who used it as a lure for a dead woman.

I reached for the pendant at my neck, clutching it so hard the metal bit into my palm. *“Run,”* she had said. But where? The Chen Global Tower was a fortress. The elevators required a biometric scan. The guards at the door were loyal to the man who paid their checks, not the girl in the charcoal robe.

I was trapped in a glass cage at the top of the world.

A soft knock at the door made me jump. I sat up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to smooth my hair. "Who is it?"

The door opened a crack, and Sarah stepped in, carrying a small silver tray with a glass of warm milk and a single white pill.

"Mr. Chen thought you might have trouble sleeping, Madam," she said softly, her voice devoid of any judgment.

I looked at the pill. "What is it?"

"A mild sedative. For the nerves. Tomorrow will be a long day."

I looked at the glass, then at Sarah. Her eyes were kind, but they were the eyes of someone who followed orders without question. Was this a sedative, or was it another way to 'handle' me? To keep the bait quiet while the hunter prepared his trap?

"Leave it," I said, my voice finally regaining a sliver of its edge.

She set the tray on the nightstand and bowed. "The tailor will be here at eight tomorrow morning. You have a luncheon with the Mayor’s wife at noon. Mr. Chen expects you to be radiant. Your debut as the new Mrs. Chen must be flawless."

"Radiant," I whispered to the empty room after she left.

I stood up and walked to the window. Below me, the city was a blur of motion—thousands of people living normal lives, unaware of the war happening in the clouds. Somewhere out there, my mother was hiding in the shadows. Somewhere out there, a woman who had let me believe I was an orphan for twenty years was watching my every move.

I didn't take the pill. Instead, I walked to the heavy oak wardrobe in the corner. I pulled out the simplest black dress I could find—a mourning dress, though the world wouldn't know it.

If Damien Chen wanted a tool, I would be a tool. But tools can be dangerous if they aren't handled correctly. He thought he had crushed my phone and my spirit under his heel, but he had forgotten one thing.

I had been invisible for seven years. I knew how to move in the dark. I knew how to listen when people thought I was just a part of the furniture.

I sat back on the bed and waited. I waited until the lights in the penthouse dimmed to a low amber. I waited until the hum of the central air was the only sound in the hallway.

Then, I stood up. I didn't need a phone to find the truth. Damien’s office was at the end of the hall, and he had forgotten to mention one very important rule.

Never leave a desperate woman with nothing left to lose.

I crept to the door, my breath held tight in my chest. I pressed my ear to the wood, listening for the heavy "thud" of his footsteps. Silence.

I turned the handle. It was locked.

I felt a cold smile touch my lips. A lock? To a girl who had spent a decade breaking into the Harrington pantry just to eat? A lock was an invitation.

I reached into my hair and pulled out a sturdy, professional bobby pin Sarah had used to style my bun earlier.

𝘾𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙠. The sound was small, but in the silence of the penthouse, it sounded like a gunshot. I froze, waiting for the guards, for Sarah, for 'him'.

Nothing.

I pushed the door open and slipped into the darkness of Damien’s office. The room smelled of cigar smoke and ancient power. I moved toward the desk, my eyes adjusting to the shadows.

There, sitting on the blotter, was a single manila envelope. It wasn't about the Harringtons. It wasn't about the merger.

In bold, red letters, it was stamped: 

PROJECT CERBERUS.

I opened it, and my heart stopped.

It wasn't a list of debts. It was a list of names. And the first name on the list wasn't Howard Harrington.

It was mine.

Beside my name was a date—six months from today—and a single word written in Damien’s jagged, aggressive hand:

"DISPOSE".