Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Ballroom
The gilded ballroom of the Drake Hotel dissolved into a deafening silence inside Vincent Moretti’s head. Crystal chandeliers hummed under high ceilings, champagne flutes clinked, and Chicago’s elite gossiped behind silk and diamonds. But to Vincent, every sound had been sucked into a vacuum.
The little boy, no older than three, had thick dark curls, round flushed cheeks, and eyes of piercing slate-gray—eyes that mirrored the reflection Vincent saw in the mirror every morning of his miserable life.
The boy wrapped two small arms around the woman’s knees.
"Mommy, look! Marcus let me have the little strawberries with the chocolate!"
The woman smiled down. It was a soft, glowing, unreserved smile—a smile Vincent hadn't seen in four agonizing years. She reached down, smoothing a stray lock of dark hair from the boy’s forehead with manicured fingers.
"Leo, sweetheart, what did we say about running ahead of Marcus?" her voice floated across the marble floor. It was lower than Vincent remembered, rich with velvet, stripped of every ounce of the youthful innocence he had once known.
Vincent couldn't breathe. His lungs felt lined with shattered glass.
"Anna..."
The name tore from his throat, raw and broken.
Beside him, Sophia stiffened, her manicured nails digging painfully into his bicep through the fabric of his bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo. "Vincent? What are you doing? Stop. People are looking at us."
He didn't shake Sophia off; he violently ripped his arm from her grasp. He didn't care about the board members, the politicians, or the cameras flashing near the red-carpet entrance. Nothing existed except the impossible ghost standing twenty feet away.
For three years, he had visited an empty tomb in Rosehill Cemetery. For three years, he had woken up in cold sweats, choking on the phantom smell of jet fuel and burning flesh. He had buried an empty casket because there had been nothing left of the fuselage to recover.
Yet here she stood.
She wore an emerald-green backless gown that clung to her curves with regal elegance. Her shoulder-length hair fell in glossy waves, and around her throat sat a necklace of emeralds and diamonds that screamed obscene, untouchable wealth.
Vincent took a step forward, his legs trembling beneath him. "Anna!"
At the sound of his shout, several heads turned. Anna froze.
Vincent watched as her shoulders tensed beneath the emerald silk. For a fraction of a second, something dark and sharp flashed across her striking profile. But when she turned around to face the room, her expression was smooth, composed, and terrifyingly cold.
Her gaze swept over the crowd and landed squarely on him.
Vincent felt as if he had been struck by lightning. "Anna... it’s you. My God, you’re alive..."
He lunged forward, his hands reaching out instinctively to touch her, to verify the miracle, to prove that his shattered mind hadn't finally snapped under the weight of his guilt.
Before he could bridge the gap, a broad, towering figure stepped smoothly between them.
The man was built like a fortress, clad in a charcoal-grey Savile Row suit. He was handsome, possessing the sharp, predatory posture of an ex-military operator who now commanded a private empire.
"Step back, Mr. Moretti," the man said in a low, resonant British baritone.
Vincent bared his teeth, his street-fighter instincts flaring. "Get out of my way. That's my wife."
"Excuse me?"
The voice came from behind the tall man.
Anna stepped around the broad shoulder of her protector. She tilted her head, observing Vincent with a cool, detached curiosity, as if he were a mildly disruptive stranger who had spilled wine on her carpet.
"Anna," Vincent choked out, his vision blurring with tears he hadn't shed since the day the investigators told him no one could have survived the inferno. "Anna, please. It's me. Vincent. I... I thought you were dead. I watched the plane explode. I looked for you for months. I—"
"I believe you have mistaken me for someone else, Mr. Moretti," she said smoothly. Her voice was pure ice. Not a crack. Not a tremor.
Vincent’s heart stuttered. "What are you talking about? Look at me! You’re Anna. Anna Bennett Moretti. My wife!"
Beside her, little Leo shrank slightly behind her gown, his grey eyes wide with wariness as he watched Vincent. Anna placed a protective hand on the boy’s head, shifting her body ever so slightly to shield the child from Vincent’s view.
"My name is Victoria Vance," she stated calmly, her voice carrying clearly across the listening circle of socialites. "And this is my son, Leo. As flattering as it is to be confused with someone dear to you, I assure you, we have never met."
"That's a lie!" Vincent roared, taking another step.
The tall man stepped into his personal space, a large hand planting firmly against Vincent’s chest. The grip was iron. "I said, step back. My name is Marcus Vance. And if you harass my business partner and her son again, the Chicago police won't be the ones carrying you out of here."
"Anna, look at the boy!" Vincent pointed a shaking finger at Leo. "He has my eyes! He has my jawline! He was born three years ago! You were pregnant when..."
Vincent stopped. The words caught in his throat like a barbed hook.
*You were pregnant when I left you on a burning plane to save Sophia.*
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Sophia hurried forward, her face pale beneath her makeup, her silk dress rustling frantically. She gripped Vincent’s shoulder, trying to pull him back. "Vincent, please! You’re making a scene! Look at her—she doesn't even know you. Grief has made you hallucinate. Let’s go outside. Please."
Anna’s eyes flicked to Sophia.
For the briefest instant, the cold mask slipped. A glint of pure, unadulterated venom flashed behind Anna’s emerald eyes. It was gone so quickly Vincent thought he had imagined it.
"Take your companion’s advice, Mr. Moretti," Anna murmured, adjusting the diamond bracelet on her wrist. "You look unwell. Perhaps you should learn when to leave things behind... before you lose what little dignity you have left."
With that, she turned her back on him.
"Come along, Marcus. Leo’s bedtime is in an hour, and we have the port acquisition meeting with the governor tomorrow morning."
"Of course, Victoria," Marcus said. He scooped little Leo up onto his hip with practiced ease. The boy wrapped his arms around Marcus's neck, giggling as Marcus whispered something funny in his ear.
Vincent stood frozen, rooted to the marble floor, his chest heaving as the three of them walked away.
Every instinct in his blood, every nerve in his body screamed that she was his wife. She was the woman he had promised to protect under God. She was the woman whose screams had haunted every night of his existence.
May you like
And she had looked at him as if he were nothing more than dirt on the sole of her shoe.
***
