Sylvie
The black Armani gown feels like a second skin. Not the soft, yielding skin of the girl who died, but a sleek, cold armor. I clasp a simple diamond necklace around my throat, the one my mother left me. It’s the only piece of jewelry I wear besides the three-carat lie on my finger. In the mirror, the woman looking back is a stranger. Her eyes are ancient. There is no warmth in her smile. She is ready.
I descend the grand staircase, each step a deliberate, measured beat. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses rises to meet me, a ghost of a party I remember with a nauseating fondness. The ballroom of my family home is filled with the city’s elite, all of them smiling, all of them vultures in couture.
And there they are. Marcus and Marin, standing near the champagne fountain. His arm is draped possessively around her waist as she whispers something in his ear. They laugh, a shared, intimate sound that feels like a physical blow. The memory of them on that television screen, announcing their engagement over my fresh grave, is so vivid I can almost smell the antiseptic of the hospital.
My presence is a ripple that spreads through the room. The conversations closest to the stairs falter. Heads turn. Marcus sees me, and his smile widens, all practiced charm and perfect teeth. He disentangles himself from Marin and moves toward me.
“There you are,” he says, his voice a low, appreciative murmur. He takes my hand, his thumb stroking the massive diamond. “You look… stunning. Absolutely stunning.” His eyes flick over the severe lines of the black dress. “But black? For our engagement party?”
I let him hold my hand, but I do not return the pressure. “I felt it suited the occasion.”
His smile tightens at the edges. “Is everything alright, Sylvie? You seem… different.”
“Do I?” I meet his gaze, my own perfectly placid. “Perhaps I just woke up this morning with a renewed sense of clarity.”
Marin glides to his side, a vision in pale pink chiffon that screams innocence. “Sylvie, darling! You look absolutely breathtaking.” She reaches for me, her arms open for an embrace.
I take a half-step back, just enough to make the gesture awkward. She lets her arms fall. Her eyes, full of feigned concern, narrow for a fraction of a second.
“You had me worried,” she coos, placing a hand on Marcus’s arm. “I called your cell this morning, and you didn’t answer.”
“I was busy,” I say, my tone flat.
“Well, you’re here now,” Marcus cuts in, trying to smooth over the strange tension. “Everyone is so excited for us.”
“Are they?” I let my gaze drift over the crowd. “They seem more excited about the merger. About the joining of two fortunes.”
Marin laughs, a tinkling sound that used to charm me. Now it sounds like breaking glass. “Oh, Sylvie, don’t be so cynical. This is about love.”
“Of course it is,” I say, my voice dripping with an irony that only I can understand. “What else could it possibly be about?”
I feel their confusion, a tangible thing in the air between us. They are searching for the warm, trusting girl they know how to manipulate. She is not here.
My eyes scan the room, looking past the sycophants and the social climbers. And then I see him.
Gavin Holt. He stands alone by the french doors leading to the terrace, a glass of whiskey in his hand. CEO of Holt Industries, the shark that circled our waters, the man my father called a corporate barbarian. In my past life, I avoided him. I found his reputation for ruthlessness distasteful. Now, I see him for what he is: a weapon.
“Excuse me,” I say, detaching my hand from Marcus’s slackened grip. “There’s someone I need to speak to.”
I leave them there, their perfect smiles frozen in place. I can feel their eyes, and the eyes of half the room, on my back as I cross the marble floor. I do not walk like a fiancée. I walk like a predator stalking its prey.
Gavin Holt watches my approach, his expression unreadable. He is taller than I remember, with dark hair and eyes so intense they seem to strip away every pretense.
“Mr. Holt,” I say, my voice even. “I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think Crane-Croft engagement parties were your usual hunting ground.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He doesn’t seem startled by my directness. He seems intrigued. “Ms. Crane. One should always assess the competition. Or in this case, the… alliance.”
“An alliance is only as strong as its foundation,” I reply, echoing his cynical tone. “And foundations can have cracks.”
He raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “A bleak assessment for a woman on her engagement night.”
“I prefer to call it a realistic one.” I pivot the conversation, giving him no time to probe. “Tell me, what’s your take on the coming shift in renewable energy subsidies? I have a theory the market is about to overcorrect.”
The shift in his posture is subtle, but I see it. The casual observer becomes the focused CEO. He was expecting a socialite. I am giving him a strategist.
“Most analysts predict a steady growth curve,” he states, his voice a low baritone. It’s a test.
“Most analysts are looking at the press releases, not the legislative footnotes,” I counter smoothly. “There’s a clause in the new European trade agreement that’s being overlooked by everyone focused on domestic policy. It creates a tax loophole that will make foreign tech manufacturing ten percent cheaper overnight. The domestic market will panic, and stocks will plummet before they stabilize.”
I’m not just reciting facts I remember. I am delivering prophecy disguised as analysis. I see the flicker of genuine shock in his eyes, quickly masked by a predatory calm.
“That’s… a very astute observation, Ms. Crane,” he says, and for the first time, his tone holds a sliver of respect. “One your fiancé’s company seems to be missing, given their recent acquisitions in domestic manufacturing.”
“Marcus has his strengths,” I say, the lie tasting like ash. “I have mine.”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch. I have given him something valuable, a taste of what I know. A seed of intrigue.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says finally, his voice soft.
“People are rarely what you expect, Mr. Holt.”
I give him a small, enigmatic nod. “It was a pleasure speaking with you.”
Then I turn and walk away, leaving him on the terrace. I don’t look back, but I can feel his stare, hot and calculating, between my shoulder blades.
I rejoin the party, my path taking me past a small alcove. I slow my steps as I hear their voices. Marcus and Marin. Hiding in the shadows.
“What was that all about?” Marin’s voice is a venomous hiss. “What in God’s name is she doing talking to Gavin Holt?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus sounds frustrated, bewildered. “She’s not acting like herself. The black dress, the way she spoke to me… it’s like she’s a different person.”
“Well, you need to handle it,” Marin snaps. “This merger, this wedding… everything depends on her being the predictable little doll she’s always been. Go talk to her. Remind her who she is.”
I smile to myself in the dim light. Oh, they have no idea who I am.
But they’re about to find out.
