Ghosts wear suits.
They smile in public.
But only the damned can hear their footsteps.
The ballroom of the Liora Grand Hotel seemed a page ripped from an expensive magazine—too perfect, almost unreal. The marble floor gleamed, smooth as glass.
The ceiling was carved with gilded floral moldings, and the three giant chandeliers resembled stars fallen to earth. Long silk curtains, silver and black, hung on either side of the room, seeming to conceal the whispers of the night.
This was wealth speaking in a language of silence and sparkle.
The guests—CEOs, businessmen, prominent families, politicians, and celebrities—smiled and chatted amiably, clutching their glasses of champagne and European wines. But amidst this opulent scene, one woman commanded attention.
Celeste Carreon.
Her presence didn't merely enter; it exploded around her.
With each step she took from the top of the grand staircase, the entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.
The lights flickered, and conversations subsided, as if strangled by her presence.
She wore a deep red satin gown that seemed molded to her skin, cinched at the waist, hugging her chest, with a daring slit that grazed her left thigh.
The fabric shimmered like a newly bloomed red rose in the sunlight.
Red was her chosen armor—bold, defiant, unforgettable. But tonight, it felt less like a weapon... and more like a warning.
Like danger disguised in elegance, glowing fiercer under the ballroom's glare
She wore no necklace, only a pair of emerald earrings and a diamond cuff on her wrist.
Simple, yet supremely elegant.
Her hair was arranged in a loose bun, with a few strands deliberately left loose, a hint of controlled chaos. Her makeup was impeccable—red lips, smoky eyes, flawless skin.
She didn't come here to flirt.
She came here to dominate.
All eyes followed her as she descended the grand staircase.
Men. Women. Old. Young.
Their attention was riveted on her. Some admired, some envied, but most—feared her.
"That's Celeste Carreon?"
"My God, she's colder than ice."
"She's the one who killed that takeover deal like it was nothing."
She heard the whispers.
She didn't need to look to feel the tension.
She had long grown accustomed to their admiration laced with fear. But tonight, the spotlight wasn't just on her for power.
It was also for celebration.
She was the woman who had saved Avalon Holdings from utter collapse. Despite the betrayals, despite those who had turned their backs, she was still standing.
Tonight's gala was her coronation.
Her victory lap.
And yet, even queens can feel haunted in their own palace.
The same wolves who once circled her throne were now here, pretending to serve.
But beneath her smile, beneath the makeup and diamond cuffs…a ghost knocked at the door of her memory.
If only he could see me now. No. He's gone. I made sure… But did I? The fire took him—but it also took pieces of me I've never recovered. Every success since then felt like building an empire on top of a grave I dug myself.
Though unheard by anyone else, it was crystal clear to her. Embedded in her mind like ashes beneath the earth.
She approached the bar, nodded to the bartender, who immediately approached her.
No questions.
He was used to her.
The best champagne in the house—gold in color, its bottle bearing a label reserved for royalty—was presented to her by a trembling waiter.
"For you, Mrs. Carreon," he said, barely able to meet her gaze.
She didn't drink it immediately.
She simply stared at it.
The glass was cold in her hand, but a burning sensation filled her chest. A heat was tracing its way through her heart—not love, not satisfaction, but fear. A fear she had long covered with money, success, and power.
Around her, there was laughter. Toasts. Cameras. Music. Women dazzling in designer gowns, men in tuxedos that seemed plucked from a film.
But why did it feel like the night was holding its breath… waiting for something to break?
She quickly glanced around.
Nothing.
Just a group of investors in conversation, executives she knew. Some were busy shaking hands; others were laughing merrily.
Everything seemed normal and formal.
For a second, she caught her reflection in the mirror across the bar. But something felt off. The woman staring back looked older. Tired. Haunted. Not the ice queen everyone feared… but someone being hunted.
It's just nerves, she tried to reassure herself. You're just paranoid. It's not real. He can't be here. He can't…
She forced a smile at the waiter, who looked flustered.
"Ma'am, are you alright?" he asked.
She straightened her posture, restoring her smile. "Yes. I'm fine."
But she knew something was troubling her.
She had never felt this kind of unease. And as she raised her glass again, she sensed an approach.
Not a guest.
Not a camera.
But the past…walking into the present. And it would begin tonight.
Games don't end with a checkmate; they begin with one.
The spotlights played on the ballroom ceiling, circling as if searching for the lead in a scene long written. The music pulsed to a low jazz beat, punctuated by dramatic chords. The guests still celebrated, laughing and chatting, but a strange chill permeated the air.
The host of the evening ascended the stage—a well-known TV personality, a magazine staple, with a perfect smile and posture. He wore a sharp black tuxedo, holding a microphone with a diamond-studded handle
"Ladies and gentlemen…" He paused and grinned. "Tonight is not just a celebration…it's a resurrection."
Some in the crowd laughed, but it was forced.
Others exchanged glances, puzzled.
What kind of resurrection was the host referring to?
But not Celeste.
She sat at her VIP table at the front—the best seat in the room, reserved for the queen of the evening. But to her, the table felt like a temporary throne before a firing squad.
She silently set down her champagne glass. Her hand rested on the plush armrest of the chair; she sat elegantly, legs crossed, but under the table, her fingers trembled with tension.
Her shoulders, though straight, were slowly stiffening. It was as if a cold hand had suddenly caressed her skin. An inexplicable dread crept up her neck.
There's something wrong. This isn't part of the script…
The host continued, lowering his voice as if revealing a hidden bomb.
"We've heard the rumors. The whispers. The mystery man behind Avalon's survival. Tonight, we put a name to the face…"
Celeste's unease intensified.
It felt as if the air around her had been sucked away.
Her heartbeat, long trained for boardroom wars, now pounded wildly. This wasn't excitement. It was fear. Not the fear of a new adversary, but the fear of…a ghost.
It can't be him. No. That's impossible. He's dead. I'm the reason…
She remembered the last thing she ever told him.
"Don't die on me."
And now, he had turned that plea into a curse.
"Please welcome," the host boomed, "the man who saved our sinking ship…Mr. S. V. Del Fierro."
A deafening silence followed. And it was as if a bomb had exploded in Celeste's mind.
The ballroom was still.
No one reacted.
Everyone seemed stunned. An invisible force seemed to have swept through the room, erasing the music, erasing the laughter, erasing time.
Celeste didn't blink.
She simply stared at the host, her expression blank, but inside…memories screamed.
S. V. Del Fierro?
There was no such name on her list. None in the board briefings. No record of that investor. She had made sure. She had scanned every name. Every threat. But why did it sound familiar?
And then she heard it.
Footsteps, steady, rhythmic, purposeful.
Not furtive.
Not hurried.
Every step was a warning.
Then she smelled it.
A faint trace in the air—amber and smoke. A scent she hadn't forgotten, even after all these years. The cologne he always wore, clinging to the collar of his coat. The cologne he said, "Makes me feel like fire and silence."
The cologne she only smelled when he held her close.
Her throat tightened. No. It couldn't be. That scent died with him…
Like a memory rattling back from the grave.
Like the music of the night of the tragedy.
She took a deep breath, trying to suppress her trembling. But she couldn't stop the chill that slowly crept up her neck, down her spine.
Oh…no…
The shadows parted like curtains on a stage.
Slow, deliberate.
As if time obeyed him.
The crowd hadn't moved—but she had stopped breathing. Not because he was handsome… but because he was real. Because he wasn't supposed to be.
Then the lights shifted. But before the light revealed him, a memory slammed into her chest. A hallway filled with smoke. A hand pushing her away.
"Celeste, run!"
A kiss on her forehead. A gunshot. A fire erupting.
Her breath hitched. This wasn't just déjà vu. This was the night she couldn't repeat.
And there he was.
Looking like the very ghost she had tried to burn away with her past.
Tall. Calm. Alive.
As if he had never been gone.
As if he had never been burned.
As if he had never been buried.
The man who once vowed to protect her… now looked like a man who came to destroy her.
He looked like a young man forged in hell, gentlemanly in appearance but with darkness beneath his skin.
He wore a custom-made black tuxedo, his posture impeccable, and his aura…dominant, fierce, and not the man she once knew.
He had a slight stubble on his jaw.
His jawline was more defined.
His gaze colder.
But the most devastating blow to Celeste's heart…his eyes.
The gaze that once held dreams, love, a promise never to leave her, now burned with fury.
And the smile…it wasn't a happy smile. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a smile that promised punishment.
And the smallest, yet most significant detail? The scar. On his left eyebrow. Small. But unforgettable. A mark she herself had made.
The man she had buried…was alive.
Celeste's entire world tilted.
Her body, accustomed to control, calculation, boardroom warfare, suddenly froze. Her mind, skilled at analyzing figures, deals, and stocks, went blank.
This can't be happening…
Her lips moved without sound.
A whisper unheard by others, yet a scream within her chest.
No…that's…that's impossible… Celeste whispered to herself.
She let go.
Not just of the glass, but of every lie she had told herself to survive.
The champagne glass shattered on the polished floor. The sound of breaking glass cut through the silence—sharp, violent, piercing.
Everyone looked at her.
But she could no longer hear anything.
The sound of the ballroom was gone.
The host was gone.
The music was gone.
Only her heartbeat remained.
Fast. Loud. Painful.
As if her body was screaming a truth she refused to accept. As if she was returning to the night of the fire. To the smell of gasoline. To the scream of the man she loved. And to the promise that he would never return.
But now…he was here.
Not just alive, but more powerful.
More dangerous.
His eyes scanned the room, then landed directly on her. He smiled, slow, deliberate. Like he knew this moment would come. And he did.
It wasn't just a smile.
It was a sentence.
And Celeste…was finally on trial.