Paige
“The earpiece is military grade. Undetectable. I’ll be your eyes and ears, feeding you names, connections, weaknesses.” Julian’s hands are steady as he fits the tiny device, no bigger than a grain of rice, into my ear. It feels cold against my skin.
“And I’ll be the face,” I say, looking at our reflection in the penthouse window. He’s the ghost in the machine. I’m the ghost in the flesh.
“You’re more than that, Paige. You’re the weapon.” He steps back, his eyes doing a final sweep. “Are you ready for this?”
I turn from the window. I’m wearing a gown of emerald silk that matches Seraphina’s eyes. It’s a simple, devastating column of fabric that clings to a body I still don’t recognize as my own. My hair is swept up, exposing a neck that has never known the touch of a scar.
“She’ll be there, Julian. Floating on a cloud of my success.”
“I know. The intel says she’s making the grand announcement at nine sharp.”
“She’ll be insufferable.”
“Then let her. Every smug smile is another nail in her coffin. Remember the plan. Tonight is about observation. You are Seraphina Laurent. A beautiful, vapid socialite, here to be seen. You are not there to start a war.”
“The war already started,” I murmur, picking up a small, jewel-encrusted clutch from the marble countertop. It’s empty except for Seraphina’s phone and a tube of blood-red lipstick.
“Just don’t fire the first shot tonight,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “Let them underestimate you. It’s the best advantage we have.”
I meet his worried gaze. “They already do. They think I’m dead.”
I walk out of the apartment without looking back. The mask of Seraphina settles over my features, cool and impenetrable. The elevator ride down is silent. The air in the car Julian arranged is chilled. Everything is quiet, the calm before the storm of my own making.
The Landen Tower looms, a spear of glass and steel piercing the night sky. The Starlight Gala. My father used to say it was a celebration of innovation. Now it’s just a stage for his daughter’s fraud.
The moment I step out of the car, flashes from paparazzi cameras explode like fireworks. A wall of sound hits me. Shouted questions. “Seraphina, over here! Who are you wearing? Is it true about your recovery?”
I offer them a slow, languid smile I practiced for hours. It feels like stretching a muscle I’ve never used before. I glide past them, the emerald silk of my dress whispering against the red carpet. I am a vision, an enigma. I am everything Paige Landen was not.
Inside, the ballroom is a galaxy of chandeliers and champagne flutes. The air hums with the conversations of the city’s elite. And under it all, a familiar scent. A ghost on the air. My ghost.
Aura.
They’re already diffusing it through the vents. My creation, my soul, turned into ambient party fragrance. My hand clenches around my clutch.
“Easy,” Julian’s voice murmurs in my ear. “The chairman of Lux-Essence is to your left. Don’t engage.”
I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The bubbles are a welcome distraction. My eyes scan the room, a predator seeking its mark. And then I see her.
Isolde is holding court by the grand staircase, laughing, her blond hair a perfect halo under the crystal lights. She’s wearing a dress of blinding white, like a virgin sacrifice. The irony is so thick I could choke on it. Her father, my stepfather, stands beside her, beaming with a proprietary pride that makes my stomach turn.
A hush falls over the crowd. My stepfather taps a microphone on the stage. It’s time.
“Welcome, friends, colleagues!” he booms, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “Tonight, we celebrate not just another year of success, but the dawn of a new era for Landen Perfumes. An era spearheaded by my brilliant, talented daughter, Isolde!”
Isolde steps onto the stage, soaking in the applause. I find a pillar and lean against it, my body rigid. I need to be still, or I will shatter.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she coos. “Tonight, I am so proud to share with you a fragrance that came to me in a dream. A scent of resilience, of light, of triumph. I call it… Aura.”
The name, my name for it, from her lips is a profanity. The crowd applauds wildly. My creation. My dream. My story. She’s telling it as her own.
“Deep breaths,” Julian whispers in my ear. “She’s a fraud, and we’re going to prove it. Just not tonight.”
I close my eyes, forcing myself to unclench my jaw. He’s right. I take a sip of champagne, the cold liquid doing nothing to douse the fire in my veins. The speech ends. The music swells. People start to move again, to mingle. I feel a presence beside me before I see him.
“It’s an impressive launch.”
The voice is low, a rich baritone that cuts through the noise of the room. I turn. He’s tall, dressed in a black tuxedo so perfectly tailored it looks like it was stitched onto his body. His hair is dark, his features sharp, almost severe. But it’s his eyes that stop my breath. They’re a deep, penetrating gray, and they’re looking at me not like a man looks at a beautiful woman, but like a scientist looks at a fascinating, unsolved equation.
This is Connor Wilde.
Julian’s voice is a sharp hiss in my ear. “Target of opportunity. CEO of Wilde Industries, Landen’s biggest rival. Be careful, Paige. He’s a shark.”
“Impressive is one word for it,” I say, my voice the cool, detached melody of Seraphina.
He doesn’t smile, but a corner of his mouth ticks upward. “You don’t sound impressed, Miss Laurent.”
He knows who I am. Of course he does.
“I’m surprised you do, Mr. Wilde,” I counter, turning to face him fully. “I thought you had a more discerning nose.”
His eyes narrow slightly. A flicker of something. Surprise? Intrigue? “I have a discerning eye for marketing,” he corrects smoothly. “And this is excellent marketing. A beautiful story for a beautiful face.”
His gaze holds mine, intense and assessing. He’s not just looking at me. He’s seeing me. It’s a terrifying, exhilarating feeling I haven’t had since before the fire, before the scars.
“Beauty fades, Mr. Wilde,” I say quietly.
“Talent doesn’t,” he replies, his voice dropping even lower. “But it can be… misplaced.”
My heart stutters. What does he mean? Is this a test?
“He knows something,” Julian says in my ear. “Or he’s guessing. Pull back.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I say, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. The Seraphina mask is my shield.
“The scent,” Connor says, gesturing vaguely at the room. “It’s technically brilliant. The balance of the top notes, the complexity of the heart… it’s the work of a master. But the story she’s selling doesn’t match the fragrance.”
He’s right. He smells it too. The lie.
“And what story does the fragrance tell you?” I ask, my voice a breath softer than I intended.
His gray eyes scan my face, searching for something. “It tells a story of loss. Of something beautiful that was burned away, and is struggling to grow back from the ashes.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. It’s my story. The one I encoded in the molecules of Aura. The story of my scars. And this man, this stranger, he reads it as clearly as if I’d written it down.
“That’s… a very poetic interpretation,” I manage to say, my throat suddenly tight.
“I’ve found that the best perfumes are poems,” he says. “This one just seems to have the wrong author’s name on the cover.” He takes a small step closer. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Connor Wilde.”
“Seraphina Laurent,” I reply, my voice recovering its practiced smoothness. I don’t offer my hand.
“I know,” he says. “The whole city knows. Welcome back to the world, Seraphina.”
He says my new name, but his eyes say something else. They say, I see you. I don’t know what you are, but I see you.
He gives a short, formal nod, and then he’s gone, melting back into the glittering crowd. I’m left standing by the pillar, my champagne flute trembling in my hand. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the smooth facade of Seraphina Laurent.
“Paige? Talk to me. What just happened?” Julian’s voice is urgent in my ear.
I stare into the crowd where Connor Wilde disappeared. The plan was to observe. To be invisible in plain sight.
But I think I’ve just been seen.
