The silence inside the limousine on the way back from the gala was vibrating. Emily was leaning against the window, her silhouette framed by the passing streetlights of Manhattan. She hadn't said a word since we left the ballroom. My hand still felt the warmth where hers had been, but the emotional distance between us felt like a canyon.
I looked at my reflection in the dark glass. Oliver Thompson looked back—flawless, wealthy, untouchable. But I knew that under the expensive fabric of my shirt, my heart was racing like the street kid I used to be.
When we arrived at the manor, the front gates opened like the jaws of a silent beast. I saw Ethan's motorcycle parked near the side entrance. He was already here.
"Go up to bed, Emily," I said as the car came to a halt. "I need to talk to Ethan."
She turned to me, her eyes reflecting the dim interior light. "Don't fight with him, Andrew. He did what he did to save you tonight."
"I know what he did," I replied, my voice tighter than I intended.
I watched her walk up the grand staircase before I turned toward the library. I didn't even have to open the door; the scent of gunpowder and cheap precinct coffee told me exactly where he was.
Ethan was sitting in the shadows, his tactical boots resting on my expensive mahogany table. He had stripped off the 'Hotdog' gear, but he was still wearing the dark cargo pants and a compression shirt. His knuckles were split, and there was a dark bruise forming along his jaw.
"The gala went well, I assume?" Ethan asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I saw the live stream. You looked very comfortable with a champagne glass in your hand while I was dodging flashbangs at the rail yards."
"You were supposed to be a distraction, Ethan. Not a target," I snapped, throwing my tuxedo jacket onto a chair. "William said the mission was clear. Hit the crates, leave the note, and get out. Why are your knuckles bleeding?"
Ethan stood up, his height nearly matching mine. The brotherhood we shared was forged in blood, but tonight, it felt like it was being tested by fire.
"Because Vance isn't a fool, Oliver! She didn't just send patrol officers. She had a tactical team waiting in the shadows. If I hadn't used a non-lethal shock trap, I'd be in a holding cell right now, and your 'Hotdog' legend would be over."
"You took a risk you didn't have to take," I growled, stepping into his space. "If you had been caught, my face would be the one they looked for next."
"I took the risk because you were too busy playing house with Emily!" Ethan shouted, his composure finally breaking. He poked a finger into my chest. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to protect a man who is trying to be a billionaire, a vigilante, and a lover all at the same time? You're distracted, Andrew. That kiss with Emily—don't think I didn't see the way you two were looking at each other at breakfast. It's making you soft."
The mention of the kiss made my blood boil. "Leave Emily out of this. This is about the mission."
"Emily is the mission now, whether you like it or not!" Ethan yelled back. "Vance is using her as bait. Every time you look at Emily with those eyes, you're giving Vance another piece of the puzzle. Tonight worked, but it was a fluke. We can't keep playing this game."
We stood chest-to-chest, breathing hard. The door to the library creaked open. William stood there, his laptop tucked under his arm, looking exhausted.
"If you two are finished measuring your egos," William said calmly, "we have a bigger problem. Vance didn't go home after the gala."
I turned away from Ethan. "Where is she?"
"She's at the hospital archives," William said, opening his laptop. "Ethan, you did a great job cleaning the digital servers. Every high-resolution photo of 'Andrew Parker' the athlete is gone. The internet thinks he was just a blurry urban legend from the Brooklyn underground. But Vance is old-school. She went to the physical basement of the hospital."
William pulled up a scanned image of a dusty, yellowed paper. "This is a physical intake form from five years ago. Andrew Parker. Height: 6'1. Blood Type: O-Negative. Scars: A three-inch jagged mark on the right shoulder from a 'sporting accident'."
I instinctively touched my right shoulder through my shirt. The scar was there. It always would be.
"She also found your old school records," William continued, his voice dropping. "We forged the names of your parents on those documents, and Ethan locked the digital files. But the physical registration ledger at your old community college in Brooklyn still exists. It has your signature, Andrew. Your real handwriting."
Ethan cursed under his breath. "Handwriting analysis. If she gets a sample of Oliver Thompson's signature and matches it to Andrew Parker's ledger... the mask comes off. She won't need a photo. She'll have a forensic match."
I sank into my chair. My past was a paper trail I thought I had burned, but the ghosts were crawling out of the archives. Andrew Parker—the kid who fought for pennies, the athlete who hid behind a helmet, the student who didn't exist on any map—was finally catching up to the CEO.
"She's heading to the college archives tomorrow morning," William warned. "She thinks she's found the 'human' side of the ghost."
I looked at my hands. "Then we don't have a choice. We have to erase Andrew Parker before the sun comes up. Not just the digital version. The paper one too."
Ethan looked at me, a grim understanding passing between us. "The college storage wing is high-security because of the old records. If we break in, Vance will know it was us."
"Let her know," I said, my voice turning cold as I stood up. "By the time she gets there, there won't be a single piece of paper left that says the name Andrew Parker ever existed in this city."
"And what about Emily?" Ethan asked, his voice low. "She's already suspicious. If you leave now, what do I tell her?"
"Tell her I'm doing exactly what she feared," I said, grabbing my gear from the hidden wall. "I'm becoming the ghost she's afraid of."