And my father's voice echoes in my head: "Worthless. Just like I always said."
I wake with a gasp, my heart pounding, sweat soaking the sheets.
The penthouse is silent around me, all chrome and glass and expensive emptiness. Nothing like that kitchen. Nothing like that house of horrors.
But the ghosts follow me anyway.
I check my watch—11:47 PM. Eve will still be awake, probably sketching in her living room, unaware that I'm watching.
Always watching.
I force myself out of bed and head to the observation room. The monitors glow softly, showing me her apartment in crisp detail. But she's not in the living room.
She's in the bedroom, already changed for sleep.
The monitors had shown me earlier how Eve discovered the black rose. Even through the camera's lens, I could see her hands trembling as she picked it up from the bookstore floor, turning it over with a mixture of fear and fascination.
She tucked the rose into her purse, and as I zoomed in slightly, I studied her face. There was fear there, yes, but underneath it, that spark of curiosity burned brighter.
Perfect.
The book, the rose—each carefully chosen message building on the last. She's no longer dismissing the strangeness as a coincidence. She's starting to understand that someone is watching. Someone who knows her.
Someone who sees her.
My brilliant, complicated Eve.
I'm miles away from her, safe in my observation room, watching her hunt for a ghost.
The irony isn't lost on me. I've spent my entire adult life becoming a ghost—first out of necessity, then by choice. The world can't hurt what it can't see.
I built my empire from the shadows. Made my first million through carefully anonymous investments. Acquired companies through shell corporations and proxy buyers. Even my penthouse is registered under a trust so convoluted that most people don't know I own the entire building.
It's safer this way. Control without exposure. Power without vulnerability.
Until Eve.
She's the only thing in sixteen years that's made me want to step into the light.
***
The Elysian Club gathering is in full swing when I arrive. I wear the required mask—simple black that covers the upper half of my face, with the subtle gold serpent marking at the temple that denotes my rank within the Order. The midnight blue suit is perfectly tailored, and I move through the crowd of New York's true elite with the confidence of someone who belongs here.
This isn't some charity ball open to anyone with money. This is the Order—judges, senators, CEOs, and power brokers whose names shape policy and law. The kind of people who don't just attend galas, they decide which causes receive funding before the public even knows they exist.
We gather four times a year in different locations. Tonight, it's the Alexandria Estate in the Hudson Valley, a sprawling mansion that officially doesn't exist on any property records. The ballroom is opulent but austere—no press, no photographers, no social climbers hoping to network their way to success.
Just power, recognizing itself.
I arranged Eve's invitation myself. Had it delivered to her office last week—heavy black card stock with gold embossing, the serpent symbol unmistakable. It took careful maneuvering to get it approved by the Council, but my rank carries weight, and I've called in enough favors over the years. When I told them Eve Sinclair was worth watching, worth bringing into our sphere, they didn't question me.
They should have.
She doesn't know what the Order truly is. To her, this is probably just another exclusive networking event. A chance to rub elbows with wealthy patrons. She has no idea I orchestrated every detail—the invitation, the approval, even her placement on tonight's guest list.
She has no idea she's walking into a room where fortunes are made and destroyed with a handshake. Where the real decisions are made long before they reach any boardroom or senate floor.
Where I can claim her publicly, in front of witnesses who matter.
