Chapter 5 The Ghost in Her Eyes

Bastian Ferretti stood at the window, glass of whiskey in hand, watching the

city lights blink in the distance.

They didn't matter. Not tonight.

Not in this house where everything felt heavier, quieter than it used to.

He hadn't taken a sip. Not yet.

He should've been used to this feeling by now, the long stillness that filled his life when no one was around to pretend for. But tonight, the silence wasn't comforting. It was tense. Louder than usual.

He muttered, "Not again."

And it all started the moment he saw her.

She looked like her.

That was what stopped him cold. Not the coat she wore, or the way she walked through his halls, like she didn't belong or didn't care if she did. Not even the glitter on her skin, catching the hallway light like it was mocking him.

It was her eyes.

Same shape. Same fire. Same storm he thought he'd buried years ago.

He'd seen beauty before. Plenty of it. And power too, people who used charm as currency and knew how to control a room without lifting a finger. But none of them had that look.

Until now.

It wasn't just the way she stared. It was the way she held still, as if daring life to throw one more thing at her. That kind of stillness didn't come from peace.

It came from surviving something.

And maybe he recognized it too well.

He turned from the window and set the glass down. His hand didn't shake. But something in his chest shifted. And he hated the feeling of it.

He'd brushed off Sofia's comment earlier. Tried to act like it didn't matter. But the truth was, It had mattered from the very beginning. From the seconds he saw the girl's face.

Why did she have to look like her?

He hadn't touched anyone since that night. The night she whispered over the phone, voice trembling-"Bastian, I'm scared. They're watching me."

He stayed away longer than he should have. Told himself he could protect her from a distance. That it would be safer that way. But by the time he moved, the apartment was already torn apart. Doors kicked in. Furniture tossed. Her scent still clinging to the air like a warning. But she was gone.

He used to replay her last voicemail sometimes, just to hear the soft rustle of her breathing.

"Why didn't I go?" he whispered, voice hoarse.

Pretending she was still out there had become a habit. Quiet. Desperate. The kind you never talk about out loud.

Then one day, the line just disconnected.

Just like that.

No goodbye.

No trace.

He searched. Paid people to dig. Travelled. Threatened. Waited. But she'd disappeared like smoke.

And now... that silence had eyes.

The girl didn't know it, but she was a reflection. A memory walking around in someone else's body.

A mirror he didn't want to look into.

The estate hadn't changed much. Most days he only used two or three rooms.

The rest sat in darkness, cold, untouched, filled with the echoes of things he didn't want to remember. One drawer in the study stayed locked. Inside it was a bracelet. Silver. Delicate.

He didn't open it often. But he hadn't thrown it away either.

That was how grief worked.

It made you keep things long after they stopped making sense.

He took a breath, rolled his shoulders. He had to stay sharp. This wasn't the past. It was business.

A deal.

Ninety days.

Her father would stay in line. She would follow the terms.

No complications. No mistakes.

He wasn't the kind of man who repeated himself. He didn't play games.

He'd watched her earlier from the hall. The way she held her fists tight at her sides, as if keeping herself together took effort. The way she pressed her lips like she was holding back a scream.

She walked anyway.

There was fear in her. Yes. But something else too.

Defiance.

He saw it clearer now than he had on that stage. And that was the problem.

Fear made people predictable. But defiance? Defiance could unravel things.

It sparked curiosity, and curiosity was dangerous. He'd seen what it did to men like him. To women like her.

He went back to the desk and sat down, staring across the room where shadows collected like memory. The chandelier threw soft gold light, but none of it made the room feel less cold.

That headache behind his eyes hadn't left him since the car ride back.

She wasn't supposed to mean anything. Just a name. A contract. A message to her father.

But she'd already disturbed something he'd locked down a long time ago.

He remembered the way she looked at him. Not pleading. Not cracking. Just... bracing

He respected that.

Didn't mean he wanted to.

He had built a world where no one could touch him. Where silence and structure kept everything where it belonged. There were no loose ends in his life.

Until now.

She was upstairs. Quiet.

And for some stupid reason, he cared if she cried.

"That's not your problem," he said out loud.

That made her a threat.

He took a sip of the whiskey. It burned going down. It wasn't enough.

She had no idea what she had stepped into. No idea who he really was underneath all this control.

And yet somehow, without saying much-

She was opening doors he never wanted open.

He stood, and crossed to the bookshelf, fingers skimming the pine without focus. Book she might notice.

Books she might ask about, casually, like any other girl might.

And the worst part?

He could already hear himself answering her.

That was the part that scared him.

He shoved the thought away.

She wasn't here to be known.

She was here to pay.

And Bastian would collect.

Or so he told himself.

But deep down, something warned him-

This one might be different.

Not just a debt.

Not just a message.

She might become a wound he

wouldn't survive twice.