The heavy oak doors of the library clicked shut behind me, sealing out the drafty hallway and locking me in a tomb of stifling, mid-July heat. It was barely noon, but the blackout curtains were drawn so tight that the sun was a mere suggestion, a ghost haunting the edges of the room. The air was thick—cloying with the scent of expensive, peaty bourbon and the sour, sharp tang of a man who had let himself rot in the dark.

"You’re late," a voice growled from the shadows near the fireplace.

"I didn't realize we were keeping a schedule, Lu," I said, my voice sliding effortlessly into Vivian’s shallow, melodic lilt. I reached out and flicked the brass light switch.

The sudden glare of the chandelier was an assault. My heart was a trapped bird battering against my ribs, but my vocal cords remained a masterpiece of deception.

"The sun is actually out today. You should try looking at it. Oh, wait—"

I bit my tongue, forcing the sharp, audible gasp of a woman who had just realized she’d made a cruel, accidental joke. Vivian was a predator; she would have weaponized his blindness just to see him flinch.

In a heartbeat, the shadow moved.

I didn’t even see him launch himself from the wingback chair. One second he was a silhouette, and the next, a wall of heat and hard muscle slammed into me. I cried out as my shoulder blades hit the mahogany door with a thud that rattled my teeth.

Lucian’s hands were on either side of my head, pinning me like a butterfly to a board. He was so close I could feel the feverish heat radiating off his skin. He smelled of over-proof liquor and cold, frantic sweat. Even with those clouded, sightless eyes staring three inches past my left ear, he was the most terrifying thing I had ever encountered.

"You think this is funny?" he hissed, his face so close his rough, neglected stubble grazed my cheek. His breath was hot, smelling of fermented grain. "You think you can just saunter back in here with your French perfume and your 'darling' this and 'darling' that, and I’ll just fall at your feet?"

"Lucian, you’re hurting me," I said, fighting to keep the Celeste-tremor out of my voice. I had to stay in character. Vivian wouldn’t be terrified; she’d be inconvenienced. "Let go. This Dior silk is delicate."

He let out a jagged, mocking laugh that sent a shiver straight down my spine. He leaned closer, his chest crushing mine, his sheer physical mass making it impossible to breathe.

"Silk? Is that all you care about? Of course it is." He moved one hand from the door, his long, calloused fingers grazing the column of my neck before settling on my throat—not squeezing, but there. A silent promise of how easily he could break me. "You’re a vulture, Vivian. You fled the second the engine stopped smoking because you couldn't stand the thought of playing nurse to a broken man. But now that the Aldridge Board is breathing down my neck? Now that my mother has probably promised you a bigger slice of the trust fund to 'fix' me? Now you’re back."

"That isn't true," I whispered.

"Isn't it?" His thumb brushed over my pulse point. I prayed he couldn't feel the frantic rhythm of my heart trying to leap out of my skin. "You only love things that shine. And right now, I’m just a heap of rusted metal in a basement. How much is she paying you to be here? What’s the market rate for my sight these days?"

The cruelty in his voice was a physical weight. For a split second, the real Celeste wanted to crumble. I wanted to scream that I was doing this for a ten-year-old boy in a hospital bed. But if I broke, Noah was dead.

I forced my spine to stiffen. I didn't recoil. Instead, I leaned into the heat of him, my hand coming up to rest on his heaving chest. Beneath the fine wool of his shirt, his heart was thundering with a rage that felt visceral.

"Think what you want, Lucian," I said, my voice dropping to a low, steady hum, shedding the "sweet" act for something sharper, more Vivian. "Call me a vulture. Call me a liar. Tell yourself whatever ghost story you need to feel like the victim. Ngunit hindi ako aalis."

He stiffened, his grip on my throat tightening by a fraction of a millimeter. "What did you say?"

"I said, I’m. Not. Leaving." I stared directly into those beautiful, ruined eyes. "You want to rot in the dark? Fine. I’ll sit right here and watch you do it. You want to drink yourself into a stupor? I’ll pour the glass. Ngunit hindi mo na ako matatakot. I’m the only ghost in this house that isn't afraid of you."

Lucian recoiled as if I’d burned him. He let go of my neck and stumbled back, his hand searching blindly for the edge of the desk to steady himself. He looked lost, his face a fractured mask of fury and sudden, jarring confusion.

"I hate you," he spat, his voice trembling with a raw, ugly pain. "I hate the sound of your breathing."

"Then hate me," I replied, smoothing the wrinkles out of my silk skirt. My legs were shaking, but I made sure my heels clicked firmly against the floorboards. "But get used to it. Because I’m the only thing you have left."

I walked over to the crystal decanter on the sideboard, my hands finally trembling now that he couldn't feel them. I poured a glass of ice water—not scotch—and set it on the desk with a sharp clack.

"Drink this. You smell like a dive bar in the Bronx," I said, dripping with the effortless disdain I had practiced in the mirror for hours. "I’ll be in the rose garden. When you’re ready to act like a man instead of a wounded animal, come find me."

I turned, my heels clicking a sharp, steady rhythm as I headed for the exit.

"Vivian."

His voice stopped me. It wasn't the roar of the beast this time. It was small, hollow, and so jagged it made my own throat ache. I paused, my hand gripping the cold brass knob. I didn't turn around. I couldn't.

"Yes?"

"Don’t think for a second that this changes the ending," he whispered into the shadows. "You’re still the woman who left me to die in that wreckage. You’re still the woman who didn't even look back."

The guilt hit me like a blow to the solar plexus, but I swallowed it down. I had to be a ghost to save a life. "And you’re still the man who’s too afraid to live, Lucian. I’m here. That’s more than you deserve."

I stepped out and pulled the door shut, leaning my forehead against the cold stone of the hallway. I let out a jagged breath, my lungs burning. My neck still felt the ghost of his fingers.

I started to walk away, my mind already racing toward the next lie, when I noticed something. A small, silver object was glinting on the carpet near the West Wing stairs. It was a cufflink—one of Lucian’s.

I reached down to pick it up, but a shadow fell over me before my fingers could touch the metal.

"You’re very good," a voice whispered from the darkness of the corridor.

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. Standing there was Marcus, the head of security. He was a man built of sharp angles and lethal secrets, his arms crossed over a tailored black suit.

"Vivian Lancaster had a faint, two-inch scar on her left shoulder from a skiing accident in Gstaad," he said, stepping into the dim light. His gaze dropped to my bare, unblemished skin revealed by the cut of the dress. "You don’t. So, who the hell are you, and what have you done with the real one?"