The morning sun offered no warmth to the Sterling penthouse office. Alaric sat behind his mahogany desk, a cold cup of black coffee untouched before him. Spread across the glass surface was the dossier his chief of security, Vance, had compiled overnight.
"It's flawless, Mr. Sterling," Vance said, his voice tight with professional frustration. "Too flawless. VivianShen sprang into existence exactly five years ago in Geneva. Before that? Nothing. No birth certificate, no school records, no digital footprint. It's as if she materialized out of thin air."
Alaric traced the edge of the photograph in the file—a candid shot of Vivian at the gala, her eyes like chipped ice. "People don't just materialize, Vance. And they certainly don't emerge with the face of my dead wife and the financial backing of Julian Vane. She's a ghost wrapped in a corporate shell."
"She is heavily guarded," Vance added, tapping a finger against the dossier. "Her security detail is ex-military, and her digital servers are shielded by encryption protocols we've never seen. Our tech team tried to quietly breach the Shen Fragrance Empire's mainframe this morning, but they were immediately kicked out. They received a warning code on their screens: a single black rose."
Alaric's blood ran cold. The black rose. The exact same icon that had hijacked his office monitors yesterday, alongside the haunting image of the sonogram. Nightshade. Before he could process the connection, his intercom buzzed. "Mr. Sterling, Miss VivianShen is here for the ten o'clock branding strategy meeting."
"Send her to the executive boardroom," Alaric commanded, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. "And Vance? Keep digging. Every ghost has a grave. Find hers."
When Alaric entered the boardroom, Vivian was already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline. She wore a tailored white silk suit that screamed quiet luxury, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, elegant chignon. The faint, haunting scent of Shattered Blessing permeated the air, twisting the invisible knife still lodged in Alaric's chest.
"Mr. Sterling," she said, turning slowly. She didn't offer her hand this time. "I hope you are ready to discuss the olfactory redesign of your first-class cabins. Your current signature scent is... uninspired. It smells like corporate greed masking cheap upholstery."
Alaric dismissed his hovering assistants with a sharp flick of his wrist. Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, locking them in, he walked toward her, closing the distance until he was inches away.
"Cut the act, Eva," he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "I don't know how you survived the crash. I don't know why you're calling yourself VivianShen, or what Julian Vane has to do with this. But I know my own wife."
Vivian didn't step back. She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over his tense frame with clinical detachment. "Your wife is at the bottom of the Atlantic, Mr. Sterling. And from what the tabloids suggest, she was nothing more than a placeholder. I am a business partner. Do not confuse the two."
"You have her face. Her voice."
"Plastic surgery is a marvel in Switzerland," she replied smoothly, her lips curving into a mocking, razor-sharp smile. "Perhaps Julian modeled my reconstructive surgery after your tragic loss to secure this contract. Or perhaps you are just projecting your suffocating guilt onto the nearest available canvas."
Alaric grabbed her wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise. "You expect me to believe that?"
Vivian glanced down at his hand, then back up at his eyes. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. "I expect you to remove your hand, Alaric, before I have my lawyers dismantle your stock prices by noon. You are a man accustomed to taking what he wants, but I am not something you can possess."
He let go, his chest heaving. The sheer authority in her voice was entirely alien to the timid girl he had married and discarded.
"You're working with Nightshade," Alaric stated, shifting his tactic, searching her eyes for a flicker of panic. "The black rose. The sonogram on my screen. You did that."
Vivian gracefully adjusted her pristine silk cuff. "I am a perfumer, Mr. Sterling. I deal in essences and memories, not computer codes. But if someone is haunting your digital walls, perhaps you should ask yourself who you have wronged so deeply that they would resurrect your darkest secrets."
She picked up her sleek leather briefcase, turning her back on him and walking toward the door. "Since you are clearly too emotional to conduct business today, I will have my team send the initial scent profiles to your assistant. Good day, Alaric."
As she placed her manicured hand on the doorknob, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. "Oh, by the way. You really should update the firmware on your private jet's navigation system. It has a terrible vulnerability in the secondary port. It would be a shame if... history repeated itself."
She walked out, the heavy doors closing with a definitive thud, leaving Alaric alone in the oppressive silence. He stared at the empty space she had occupied, a terrifying realization washing over his skin like ice water.
The King of Aviation was no longer in the cockpit. He was in a freefall, and she had just cut his parachute.