Chapter 3 - THE GHOST IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Before the plan could move forward,
the old man,
Charles Harrington,
stepped into the room.
He looked at me with eyes that were ancient and weary,
filled with a grief that mirrored my own.
He placed a sealed envelope on my blanket,
its weight feeling heavier than the lead shield of a radiator.
“I found your mother’s final letter,”
he said,
his voice breaking.
Inside was a photograph,
and as I pulled it out,
the world seemed to stop breathing.
It was Ethan Whitmore,
looking younger,
leaner,
and hungrier.
He was standing beside my mother,
Elena,
in a garden I didn't recognize.
Ten years ago,
long before I ever met him in that bookstore in Soho.
They weren't just standing together;
he was looking at her with a calculated,
predatory smile.
My mother looked uncomfortable,
her hands clenched at her sides.
I opened the letter,
my vision blurring as I read her shaky handwriting.
Ava,
if you are reading this,
it means the man I feared has found you.
Ethan Whitmore didn't meet you by accident.
He hunted you.
He knew who your grandfather was long before you did.
He knew about the 37% share that was locked away.
He married you to keep the Harrington fortune close,
waiting for the day I died so he could manipulate the transfer.
He is the reason our family was torn apart,
the man who leaked the scandal that drove your father to his grave.
The paper crinkled in my grip.
Ethan hadn't just cheated on me.
He hadn't just beaten me.
He had orchestrated the destruction of my entire family,
all for a seat at a table he wasn't invited to.
He had spent ten years playing a long game,
using me as a pawn in a corporate war I didn't even know existed.
“He killed them?”
I whispered,
looking at Charles.
“He destroyed their reputation,”
Charles said,
his jaw tightening.
“He made sure they had nothing,
so that when he finally 'rescued' you,
you would have no one to turn to but him.”
The lilies on the floor seemed to mock me now,
their scent turning into the smell of a rotting corpse.
The man I had shared my bed with was a monster,
an architect of ruin who had built his empire on the ashes of my mother's life.
“Grace,”
I said,
turning to the secretary.
“Yes,
Miss Harrington?”
“I don’t just want to attend the ceremony in Paris.”
I looked at the photograph of the man who had stolen my soul.
“I want to burn his world down,
until there isn't even a signature left.”
Grace Sullivan smiled,
and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
May you like
“We’ve already booked the private jet,”
she said.
