The gala shimmered beneath crystal chandeliers and curated laughter, but Ethan Hart wasn't listening. Not to the music. Not to the woman at his side. Not to the sycophant in a velvet blazer talking mergers.
Because she had just walked past.
Alessia Grey.
He'd heard the name before whispers in boardrooms, murmurs at fundraising dinners. The ghostly investor with the power of a dynasty and the mystery of a myth. No one knew her story, but everyone knew her presence.
Tonight, she wasn't just present.
She was unignorable.
A black dress sculpted to her body like it had been tailored by a god with a grudge. Diamonds kissed her neck. Red lips curved like secrets. And those eyes cool, unreadable, dangerous.
Ethan couldn't look away.
He didn't know why she unsettled him. Just that she did. Like déjà vu with a razor's edge.
And then… she turned.
Locked eyes.
The room fell away.
His pulse stuttered. Just for a second.
Alessia Grey held his gaze like it belonged to her.
And then she began to walk.
Every step deliberate. Every sway of her hips a silent war drum. The crowd parted as if it knew something sacred or cursed was approaching.
When she stopped in front of him, the silence felt deafening.
"Mr. Hart," she said, extending a gloved hand. Her voice was silk dipped in something far colder. "We haven't met. But I've heard… so much."
Ethan reached out, automatic, and shook her hand.
Her grip was cold. Not from temperature.
From intent.
"Miss Grey," he replied, trying not to stare. "You're more… present than I imagined."
Her smile didn't touch her eyes. "That tends to happen when the dead start walking."
He blinked.
She tilted her head. "I mean, in a corporate sense, of course."
"Of course," he said, but the unease in his gut was impossible to swallow. He glanced at her face again. "Have we met before?"
She leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear.
"Do I remind you of someone?"
His chest tightened. A flicker a memory pressed at the back of his mind.
A girl. Soft eyes. Blood.
Gone.
But the moment passed. And so did the thought.
"I guess I just have one of those faces," she added sweetly.
"Unforgettable, more like," Ethan said, though he wasn't flirting anymore. He was searching.
Alessia stepped closer, her perfume barely veiling the scent of smoke she carried from her past. Her gaze didn't leave his.
"I don't forget either, Mr. Hart," she said. "Especially not betrayal."
There it was again that word.
Heavy. Intentional.
He laughed awkwardly. "I hope that wasn't a warning."
"No," she said softly. "Warnings come before the storm. You're already standing in it."
He froze.
And just like that, she smiled again—effortlessly disarming, like nothing had passed between them but polite conversation. She turned slightly, letting her shoulder brush his as she passed.
Ethan watched her go.
Watched her disappear into a sea of people who had no idea a lioness was walking among them in heels.
Across the ballroom, Camille felt her chest tighten. She'd seen the look in Ethan's eyes before once, long ago, when Serena Vaughn entered a room.
But that was impossible.
Serena was dead.
Wasn't she?
In the shadows near the exit, Alessia stood alone for a moment, lifting a champagne flute to her lips.
She could still feel the pressure of Ethan's hand in hers.
Still taste the fear behind his charm.
Still hear the gunshot in the back of her skull.
He didn't recognize her. Not yet.
But he felt her.
And that was enough for now.
Because vengeance doesn't begin with fire.
It begins with a spark.
🔥End Line
The ghosts of the past don't knock.
They walk right in… wearing new skin.