Too Late For Love, Too Late For Life

For ten years, Andrew Scott – Drew – was my world. He was my protector, my father' s best friend, who' d raised me after my world shattered. My adoration for him, though, morphed into a love he brutally rejected, sending me away like a problem to be solved.

To prove I was more than his ward, I volunteered for a deep-cover CIA mission, ultimately dying for my country. But death wasn't the end. I returned, a spirit, granted seven days to find peace. My only attachment was Drew, and I materialized in his Georgetown home.

What I witnessed shattered me. Drew, the man I' d died for, was engaged to Molly, dismissing me as a mere "asset" and accusing me of desertion when I flickeringly appeared. Molly, his fiancée, wasn' t just unconcerned; she actively, sadistically tormented me, savoring my pain as I floated, unseen, through my childhood home.

He didn' t see me. He never really had. I was a liability, a game, a ghost of memory. How could the man who raised me, who promised to keep me safe, refuse to see the truth even when I stood before him, the very woman he' d sent to her death?

On my last day, my funeral arrived. My casket, draped in a flag, confirmed the unspeakable. And then, I watched as the man I loved finally broke, realizing, too late, the terrible truth of who I was, and what he had lost.

For ten years, Andrew Scott was my world. He was the one who pulled me from the wreckage of my life after my father died.

My father was a hero, a CIA legend. Drew was his best friend, his protégé. When my father' s plane went down over Eastern Europe, it was Drew who came to the door, his face a mask of grief. He was just a rising star then, not the Director he is now.

He became my legal guardian. He was the one who held me when I cried, the one who made sure I did my homework, the one who promised to keep me safe.

That promise became a cage.

The warmth I had for him, the simple adoration of a child for her protector, changed when I turned eighteen. I saw the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching. I felt the tension in the air whenever we were alone.

I was a fool. I thought it was love.

So I acted on it. One night, in the quiet of his Georgetown study, I kissed him. For a moment, he kissed me back, a desperate, hungry kiss that made my whole body catch fire.

Then he pushed me away. His face was pale, his eyes wide with something I mistook for fear but now know was disgust.

"This is wrong, Gabby," he' d said, his voice rough. "This can never happen. You are my ward. I am your guardian. Think of your future."

His future, he meant.

He sent me away to Georgetown. And to make sure I understood my place, he got engaged. To Molly Clarkson, a Senator' s daughter, the perfect political match.

He even tried to marry me off to a diplomat' s son, a move to secure an alliance. That was the final break.

I was not a pawn to be moved around his chessboard. I was my father' s daughter.

To prove it, to prove I was more than just the girl he raised, I volunteered for the one mission no one else wanted. A deep-cover operation to get close to Viktor Morozov, the oligarch who had destabilized the very region my father died in.

I would earn his respect. I would show him I was worthy.

Three years I spent in that cold, brutal world. I fed the CIA everything. I dismantled Morozov' s empire from the inside.

In the end, he found me out.

His men dragged me to a cold, damp cellar. The last thing I saw was the fury in Morozov' s eyes. The last thing I heard was the gunshot.

My last thought was of Drew.

A soft voice pulled me from the darkness.

"Gabrielle Fuller."

I opened my eyes. I was in a place of gray mist, standing before a figure that shimmered like heat off a summer road. It was neither male nor female, just a presence. A guide.

"Your sacrifice was great," it said, its voice echoing in my head. "For your country, you gave your life. Because of this, a boon is granted."

I didn't understand. I felt nothing. No pain, no fear. Just an empty calm.

"You have seven days," the guide continued. "Seven days to return to the world of the living as an unseen spirit. To find peace. To resolve your earthly attachments before you must move on."

My only attachment was Drew.

"I accept," I whispered.

The gray mist swirled, and the world dissolved.

I materialized in the front hall of Drew' s Georgetown home. The air smelled the same, a mix of old books, lemon polish, and his cologne. For a moment, it felt like I had never left.

But the world was muted. I was a ghost, an intangible whisper in a house that was once my own.

My feet made no sound on the marble floor as I walked toward his study. The door was slightly ajar. I heard voices. Drew' s, and a woman' s laugh.

Molly.

I pushed the door open. My hand went right through the wood.

They were standing by the fireplace. Molly, in a silk dress that clung to her perfect body, had her arms wrapped around Drew' s neck. He was kissing her, his hands tangled in her blonde hair. It wasn't the desperate, conflicted kiss he'd given me. It was slow, confident, possessive.

The sight shattered the last piece of my heart.

"I was so worried, Drew," Molly murmured, pulling back just enough to look at him. "This whole operation... it' s finally over."

"It's over," he confirmed, his voice low. "The asset was successful. We cut the head off the snake."

The asset. That's what I was. Not Gabby. An asset.

He must have felt something, a chill in the air, because he stiffened. He looked around the room, his eyes passing right over me.

"What is it?" Molly asked.

"Nothing," he said, but his brow was furrowed. "Just... felt a draft."

I needed him to see me. I focused all my will, all my fading energy, on making myself visible. For a second, a flicker, I succeeded. I saw my reflection in the glass of a picture frame on his desk-a pale, translucent version of myself.

Drew saw it too. His glass of whiskey slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor.

"Gabby?" he breathed, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief.

He thought I was alive. He thought I had come back.

Hope, stupid and useless, flared in my chest. He would be relieved. He would be happy I was safe.

But his face hardened. The shock was replaced by cold, sharp anger.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice like ice. "You abandoned your post. Do you have any idea the diplomatic crisis you could cause by just showing up like this? You were supposed to follow protocol."

He took a step toward me, his rage palpable. "The mission was everything. Your desertion puts all of it at risk."

My desertion.

He didn't see a dead girl. He saw a liability. He wasn't worried about my safety. He was worried about his operation.

The hope died, turning to ash in my soul. I let my form dissolve, fading back into an invisible ghost of memory.

I watched as he stared at the empty space where I had been, his face a storm of fury and confusion.

Molly rushed to his side, placing a hand on his arm. "Drew, what was that? Who were you talking to?"

"Nothing," he snapped, turning away from her. "I'm just tired. It's been a long three years."

He didn' t see me. He never really had.