"The dead should not make phone calls. Yet somehow, she knew things only a mother could know."
---
The outskirts of Russia slept beneath snow.
The city lights glittered like scattered diamonds beyond the glass walls of Aurélie's penthouse.
The night should have felt peaceful.
Instead—
It felt wrong.
Aurélie Delacroix stood barefoot beside the window, a silk robe draped loosely around her body.
A glass of wine rested in her hand.
Untouched.
Her thoughts drifted toward the cathedral.
Toward Mikhail.
Toward the footage she received unexpectedly.
Toward the woman who looked impossibly familiar.
The ghost.
The city remained silent.
Then her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Aurélie frowned.
Almost ignored it.
Something stopped her.
She answered.
---
Silence.
A long silence.
The kind that immediately feels deliberate.
Then—
a woman's voice.
Soft.
Elegant.
Older.
Dangerously calm.
---
"I know about your history with my son."
---
The wine glass nearly slipped from Aurélie's fingers.
Her pulse froze.
Not because of the words.
Because of the voice.
She knew that voice.
Not personally.
Yet she had heard it before.
Old recordings.
Recovered files.
Whispers from the past.
Mikhail's mother.
---
Aurélie remained silent.
For perhaps the first time in years—
She genuinely didn't know what to say.
The woman continued.
---
"Do you still want him back?"
---
The question struck harder than it should have.
Not because of its meaning.
Because of who asked it.
Aurélie opened her mouth.
No answer came.
The line disconnected.
Instantly.
Gone.
---
The penthouse suddenly felt colder.
Much colder.
Aurélie stared at the dark screen.
Then whispered:
"Impossible."
Yet somehow—
She didn't believe her own words.
---
Five minutes later.
Mikhail answered on the second ring.
---
"What happened?"
---
No greeting.
No pleasantries.
Only business.
Only urgency.
Aurélie immediately explained.
Every detail.
Every word.
Every pause.
The voice.
The question.
Everything.
---
Silence greeted her.
Not ordinary silence.
Mikhail's silence.
The kind people feared.
The kind that meant calculations were already happening.
Finally—
His voice emerged.
Low.
Cold.
Controlled.
---
"Stay where you are."
---
Then he ended the call.
---
Northern Russia.
Inside the secured hotel.
Maria Romanova stood near her suite window.
Snow drifted beyond the glass.
The storm looked beautiful tonight.
She hated it.
Because beauty had become suspicious.
Everything beautiful lately seemed connected to danger.
The cathedral.
The lies.
The ghost.
Mikhail.
Especially Mikhail.
---
Her thoughts betrayed her.
Again.
The explosion returned.
The collapsing stone.
The smoke.
His hands.
Shaking.
His rough voice.
Scare me.
---
Maria closed her eyes.
Annoyed.
Frustrated.
Embarrassed.
Why did she keep thinking about it?
There were bigger problems.
More important problems.
Yet somehow her mind returned to the same moment.
Again.
And again.
And again.
---
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
A security update.
Brief.
Professional.
Informative.
---
Mikhail had left the hotel.
He was meeting Aurélie.
Alone.
---
Maria immediately frowned.
The reaction annoyed her.
Because she had no right to react.
No reason.
No claim.
Yet the information lingered.
Uncomfortably.
---
Far away.
Aurélie's penthouse.
The elevator doors opened.
Mikhail stepped inside.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
It always did.
---
He wore black.
Not the polished elegance of a billionaire.
Not tonight.
Tonight he looked like a man who had survived war.
Ice-blue eyes.
Glacial.
Controlled expression.
A faint cut near his temple.
The cathedral still lingered upon him.
---
Aurélie immediately noticed.
Something had changed.
Again.
The cathedral hadn't weakened him.
It had sharpened him more.
---
"You look terrible."
---
Mikhail removed his gloves.
"I've looked worse."
---
"That's comforting."
---
"It wasn't meant to be."
---
A small smile appeared on her lips.
There he was.
Still cold.
Still impossible.
Still Mikhail.
---
She poured two glasses of whiskey.
The expensive kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind people drank when sleep wasn't an option.
Mikhail accepted one.
Finished half immediately.
---
Neither spoke for several moments.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
Only calculating.
Both were thinking.
Both were hunting.
---
Finally, Aurélie leaned against the counter.
---
"We need a distraction."
---
His gaze shifted toward her.
---
"Explain."
---
"A scandal."
---
Silence.
---
Aurélie continued.
---
"People already think we're dangerous together."
A pause.
Then:
---
"Why not use that?"
---
Mikhail stared at her.
Long enough to make most people nervous.
Aurélie waited.
---
Then unexpectedly—
A smile appeared.
Cold.
Predatory.
Perilous.
---
"If we're creating a scandal..."
He slowly lowered his glass.
"...we make it impossible to ignore."
---
Aurélie's eyes brightened immediately.
Not from romance.
From strategy.
From chaos.
From opportunity.
---
She stepped closer.
Close enough to smell whiskey.
Close enough to feel tension.
Close enough to remember the kiss.
---
Her voice lowered.
---
"We could have a secret affair."
---
Silence.
---
"Or pretend we do."
---
She leaned closer.
Whispering beside his ear.
---
"Either way..."
A small smile.
"...some people will panic."
---
For one dangerous second—
She wondered whether he would finally lose control.
Whether he would grab her.
Whether he would kiss her.
Whether the years between them would disappear.
---
Instead—
Mikhail calmly lifted a hand.
Placed it lightly against the side of her neck.
Not romantic.
Not gentle.
Control.
Pure control.
---
His eyes locked onto hers.
---
"We could televise it."
---
Aurélie blinked.
Unexpected.
---
"What?"
---
"A scandal."
His smile deepened.
Dangerously.
"Let's make it unforgettable."
---
For the first time all evening—
Aurélie laughed.
Because somehow his version was always worse.
Always larger.
Always more terrifying.
---
Yet beneath the amusement—
Another feeling existed.
Disappointment.
A small one.
A hidden one.
A selfish one.
Because part of her wanted something else.
Wanted recklessness.
Wanted desire.
Wanted him to forget himself with her.
Just once.
---
Instead—
He remained Mikhail Dragunov.
Which somehow made him harder to resist.
---
Hours later.
Elsewhere in the city.
Nikolai sat alone reviewing recovered cathedral footage.
Again.
Frame by frame.
Minute by minute.
Searching.
Analyzing.
Hunting.
---
Then he found something strange.
Something impossible.
---
The woman, who resembled Mikhail's mother, entered the cathedral.
Clear footage.
Verified.
Undeniable.
---
Yet she never left.
Not once.
No vehicle.
No exit.
No camera.
No witness.
Nothing.
---
Nikolai slowly leaned back.
---
"Impossible."
---
Which meant—
It probably wasn't.
---
Back at the penthouse.
Mikhail was prepared to leave.
The city glittered below.
The ghost lingered above them all.
---
Then his phone vibrated.
Unknown sender.
Again.
---
A message appeared.
Only one sentence.
---
---
Silence.
---
Aurélie read it.
The color drained slightly from her face.
Because only one person knew why that sentence mattered.
Only one.
---
Mikhail watched her carefully.
---
"You recognize it."
---
She nodded.
Slowly.
---
"My mother once told me..."
Her voice lowered.
"...that your mother always wanted a daughter."
---
The room became very quiet.
---
Then another message arrived.
Immediately.
---
A location.
A date.
A time.
---
And beneath it—
Six simple words.
---
Come alone if you want answers.
---
The screen darkened.
The city lights flickered below.
And somewhere in the darkness—
The ghost smiled.
**BLACKOUT.**
————
💬
> The ghost just called Aurélie personally...
> But why Aurélie? 👀
> And what does "you were always my favorite" REALLY mean? ❄️👑