4: The Ghost in Her Eyes

Bastian Ferretti stood at the window, glass of whiskey in hand, watching the city lights blink in the distance. They didn't matter. Not tonight. Not in this house where everything felt more burdened, less alive than it used to.

He hadn't taken a sip.

He should have been used to this feeling by now—the long stillness that filled his life when no one was around to pretend for. But tonight, it wasn't calming. It was sharp. Loud.

He muttered, "Not again."

And it all started the moment he saw her up close.

She looked like her.

That halted him. Not the coat she wore, or the way she walked through his halls, like she didn't belong or didn't care if she did. Not even the glint on her skin, catching the hallway light like it was mocking him.

It was her eyes.

Same shape. Same fire. Same storm he thought he'd buried years ago.

He'd seen beauty before. Plenty of it. And power too; people who used charm as currency and knew how to control a room without lifting a finger. But none of them had that look.

Until now.

It wasn't just the way she stared. It was the way she held herself together, as if daring life to throw one more thing at her. That kind of composure didn't come from peace. It came from surviving something.

And maybe he recognized it all too well.

He turned from the window and set the glass down. His hand didn't shake. But something in his chest shifted. And he hated the feeling of it.

He brushed off Sofia's comment earlier. Tried to act like it didn't matter. But the truth was, it had mattered from the very beginning. From the second he caught a glimpse of the girl's face.

Why did she have to look like her?

He hadn't touched anyone since the night she called, her voice trembling—"Bastian, I'm scared. They're watching me."

He stayed away longer than he should have. Told himself that distance would keep her safe. But by the time he moved, the apartment was torn apart. Doors were kicked in. Furniture tossed. Her scent still clings to the air like failure. But she was gone.

Sometimes he replayed the voicemail—not for her words, but for the soft rustle of her breathing. A sound he could no longer protect.

"Why didn't I go?" he whispered, voice hoarse.

Pretending she was still there had become a quiet desperate habit. The kind you never voice out.

Then one day. No goodbye. No trace.

He searched. Paid people to dig. Traveled. Threatened. Waited. But she'd disappeared like smoke.

Now, that silence had returned—with eyes.

The girl didn't know it, but she was a reflection, a memory walking around in someone's body. A mirror he didn't want to look into.

He crossed the room, a muscle ticking near his eyes as he passed the locked drawer. His hand hovered over the handle but didn't open it. This isn't the night.

Instead, he turned the monitor.

A soft click. A whir, and the footage began to play.

The auction room appeared in a cold grainy color. The stage. The crowd. The heat in the air was visible through the haze of cigar smoke. But he only watched her.

There she was.

The girl in white. Pale, silent, head low. Her arms were at her sides like she was preparing for execution, not attention. Her breath rises slightly with every call of a number.

She didn't cry or shake. But her fingers twitched. He caught it. Small, subtle. Barely visible.

Then the bids began.

Voices echoed through the speakers: "Two-fifty." "Three." "Three-fifty."

Her jaw shifted. Her throat tightened.

He paused the video.

"She knew she was alone," he murmured.

Marco's voice broke the silence as he leaned against the doorway, cigarette burning low. "You don't usually ask for replays."

"I don't usually need them," Bastian said.

Marco exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "She's got something."

Bastian didn't answer. He was watching. The moment she jolted. Not when they clipped the tag to her dress. Not when the bids soared.

But when someone in the crowd said a name—

Ethan.

It was barely audible. But her spine went rigid like someone had poured concrete through her.

There.

Bastian pressed pause.

He leaned back. Ran a hand along his jaw, pressing the tension there.

"Replay. Five seconds back."

Marco walked over and adjusted the footage. "You thinking she's not as clean as she looked?"

"No," Bastian said. "I think she's cleaner than any of them. That's the problem."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was weighted and familiar.

Bastian stood and walked toward the bookshelf, not reaching for anything. Just moving. Thinking.

Marco watched him.

"She reminds you of her, doesn't she?"

The question hung like vapor.

Bastian didn't reply.

Marco went to the liquor tray. Casual, almost.

"You know, boss, ghosts don't usually show up twice. But if that girl upstairs isn't one... I'll eat my shoes."

He crushed the cigarette in a glass dish. "You want me to dig?"

Bastian's chin dipped once. That was all Marco needed.

"Everything. Start with the Castellanos family."

"Already ahead of you," Marco said. "Her mother died when she was young. Father neck-deep in debt. Gambling, mostly. But there's something off—too many erased records. She had a scholarship to a prestigious art program. Dropped out. No trail after that. As if someone wanted her invisible."

Bastian's look turned steely.

Invisible was rarely accidental.

"Send someone to the art institute. Quietly," he said.

"Done." Marco typed fast.

"And boss... if she gets too close to something, just say the word."

Bastian looked at him.

"She already has."

Marco paused, then asked, "So what do we do?"

He turned back to the screen. Her face was frozen mid-expression.

Not pain.

Not fear.

Resolve.

"She looked at me," he murmured.

Marco frowned. "Well yeah, boss. She was on stage. They all look—"

"No," Bastian interrupted." She looked. Not to see. To... read."

Marco said nothing. He rarely saw Bastian like this. Usually buried things fast and efficiently.

But this girl was slipping through cracks he thought he had sealed shut.

"She asked what the rules were," Bastian said.

"And you told her."

"I did."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I care whether she follows them."

That stopped Marco cold. His voice softened, careful, like he was stepping over a line.

"Bastian...."

"She's just a contract," Bastian muttered, like he needed to hear it aloud.

Marco shook his head. "And I'm just a pizza guy."

"Don't get poetic."

"I'm serious. I've been with you through eleven contracts. This one's different. You didn't ask for footage with the others. You didn't sit like this."

Bastian didn't look at him.

"This one's different."

Marco gave a dry smile.

"Yeah. That's what worries me."

He grabbed his coat. "Want me to check on her?"

"No. She's fine."

"You sure?"

"No," Bastian admitted. "I'll have Mira do that."

Marco paused. Then gave a nod. "Then I'll leave you to your ghosts. Night, boss."

When Marco left, the room stilled again.

Bastian looked back at the footage.

Anaya Castellanos.

She didn't scream. She didn't run.

She walked.

He rewound the clip.

And hit play.

He had ninety days.

God help him.

He didn’t want to understand her.

But he already did.

And that was the danger.

She was upstairs. Alone. Cold.

And the fact that he cared?

That made this more than business.

He clenched his fists.

Because caring meant complication.

And Bastian Ferretti did not survive complications.

Not twice.