I reach out with trembling fingers and flip the cover open. The first page is a death certificate.Name:Elodie Cassandra Fray.Date of Death:January 24, 2026.Cause of Death:Accidental Overdose / Cardiac Arrest.Location:Hallowed Halls Psychiatric Facility.
I stare at the paper. The words swim before my eyes. "I'm... dead?"
"To the world," Alaric says calmly. He reaches over and pours more cognac into his glass. "According to public records, you died three days ago. There was a private cremation. Your parents have already held the memorial service. It was very tasteful. Your father wore Armani."
"You faked my death," I whisper. My voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. "You... you erased me completely."
"I told you," he says, taking a sip. "I protect what is mine. As long as Elodie Fray existed, she was vulnerable. She had parents who wanted to lobotomize her. She had an inheritance that made her a target. She had a past." He reaches out and turns the page.
The next document is a bank transfer.Amount:$5,000,000.00.From:The Estate of Charles Fray.To:Hallowed Halls Research Fund.Memo:Final Settlement - E.F.
"They paid you to kill me," I realize. The horror is cold, sharp. "They didn't just want me lobotomized. They wanted me gone. And this... this is the payment."
"They paid for a disposal," Alaric corrects. "They assumed the overdose would be... arranged. I simply provided the paperwork to confirm their assumption."
He turns another page. And this one stops my heart. It is a photo. Grainy. Black and white. Taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. It’s me. But it’s not recent. I look younger. Maybe eighteen. I am sitting on a park bench in Vienna, eating a sandwich, reading a score. I remember that summer. I was studying abroad.
I turn the page. Another photo. Me at twenty. Buying coffee in New York. Another. Me at twenty-two. crying in my car after an audition.
"How?" I look up at him. "This goes back years."
Alaric isn't looking at the photos. He is looking at me. "I told you I hated wasting talent," he says softly. "But that wasn't the whole truth."
He reaches out and touches my cheek. His thumb traces the line of my jaw. "I saw you play in Vienna, Elodie. Seven years ago. I was there for a conference. I walked past a practice room and heard... God, I heardpainmade into sound. I looked through the window." He smiles, a twisted, nostalgic expression. "You were a child. But you played like a woman who had lived a thousand tragedies. I knew then."
"Knew what?"
"That you were the one. That one day, you would break. And that when you did... I had to be the one to catch the pieces."
He flips through the rest of the file. It is a timeline.2020:Subject showing signs of stress. Contact initiated with family physician (Dr. Aris - on payroll).2022:Subject prescribed benzodiazepines. Dosage manipulated to increase dependency.2024:Subject's father approached regarding 'long-term care options'. Seed planted.
I stare at the pages. "You..." I push the bench back, standing up. The wood screeches against the floor. "You did this. You didn't just watch. Youengineeredit."
"I accelerated it," he admits, not moving. He sits at the piano, a king on his throne. "Your father was going to break you eventually. He was a blunt instrument. He would have shattered you and left you in a gutter. I simply... guided the collapse. I ensured you fell into the right safety net."
"You drugged me? You paid my doctor to drug me?"
"I ensured you were unstable enough to justify admission," he says coolly. "If you were sane, I couldn't keep you. If you were sane, you would have married some boring banker and wasted your fire on charity galas. I saved you from mediocrity, Elodie."
"You ruined my life!" I scream.
"I gave you a life!" he roars back, slamming his hand on the keys.CRASH.The discord reverberates through the room. He stands up, towering over me. "Look at you! You were miserable! You were starving yourself! You were playing scales for people who didn't hear you! Now?"
He stalks toward me. I back away until I hit the wall. "Now you are alive. Now you ride stallions. Now you kill men who touch you. Now you play music that makes the angels weep. Tell me I'm wrong."
He pins me against the damask wallpaper. "Tell me you were happier then," he demands. "Tell me you want to go back to being Charles Fray's disappointment."
I open my mouth to argue. To scream. To tell him he is a psychopath. But the words die in my throat. Because he's right. I hated my life. I prayed for an escape. I prayed for a bus to hit me, for a building to fall on me... anything to stop the pressure. And he stopped it. He burned my life to the ground, yes. But he pulled me out of the ashes.
"I am dead," I whisper, the reality sinking in. "Elodie Fray is dead."
"Yes," Alaric agrees. He leans down, his forehead resting against mine. "And the ghost belongs to me."
He kisses me. It is slow. Gentle. A contrast to the violence of his confession. "You have no name," he murmurs against my lips. "No money. No family. No rights. You exist only within these walls. You exist only because I allow it."
He pulls back to look at me. "Does that scare you?"
"Yes," I tremble.
