The Ghost of the Past

"Mr. Benson will arrange a car to take you to the estate on Long Island," Julian said from inside the vehicle, his tone final.

Stella nodded. A new home. A new life. But first, she had to bury the old one. "I need to go back to my apartment first," she said, her voice firm. "To pack my things."

Julian's gray eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of scrutiny in their depths. He did not object. "Mr. Benson will accompany you." It was a statement, not an offer.

The ride to her old neighborhood was silent. Stella stared out at the familiar streets, a ghost visiting a past life. Her left hand felt bare. She had worn Brandon's engagement ring for two years, yet she'd never told him about the orphanage. It was the one part of her past she'd buried completely. Without thinking, she twisted the diamond on her finger, pulled it off, and lowered the window. The ring disappeared into a curbside trash can without a sound.

From the front seat, Mr. Benson observed the act in the rearview mirror, his expression unchanging.

When the car pulled up in front of her apartment building, Stella took a breath. She used her key to open the door to the home she had shared with Brandon for three years.

Everything was exactly as she had left it. His shoes by the door. His mug on the coffee table. On the wall hung a large, framed photo of them in Central Park, smiling, a perfect lie.

Her expression was blank. She walked to the wall, lifted the heavy frame off its hook, and let it drop. The glass shattered, the sound sharp in the silent apartment.

Then she went to work.

She pulled out suitcases and large black trash bags. Her movements were swift, efficient, brutal. Her design portfolios, her books, her clothes—packed.

Everything else was trash.

The expensive watch he'd given her. The collection of first-edition novels. The oversized teddy bear from their first anniversary. All of it went into the black bags. She was erasing him. She emptied her half of the closet, her shelves in the bathroom, her side of the nightstand.

Mr. Benson and the driver worked in silence, carrying the suitcases down to the car. Stella was dragging the last trash bag toward the door when it swung open.

Brandon Price stood there.

He stared at the stripped walls, the empty shelves, the trash bags. His eyes landed on the teddy bear's ear sticking out of the bag in her hand.

His face darkened. He still thought this was a tantrum.

"Stella, stop this," he said, his voice laced with the condescending impatience she had mistaken for authority for so long. He grabbed her wrist. "This has gone far enough. Come home."

She yanked her arm free, her skin recoiling from his touch. She looked at him, truly looked at him, and felt nothing.

His eyes darted to her bare left hand. The anger in his face curdled. "The ring? You threw away the ring?" He took a step closer, his voice rising. "I make one mistake, and you do this?"

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped her. "One mistake?"

He didn't hear the danger in her tone. He gestured around the ransacked apartment. "What is all this? You're acting crazy."

"This isn't your home anymore, Brandon," she said, her voice chillingly calm. "And as of today, it's not mine either."

He couldn't comprehend it. His gaze fell on the impeccably dressed Mr. Benson standing by the open door, then flickered to the sleek, black car at the curb. Suspicion twisted his features.

"Who is he?" he sneered, jabbing a finger toward the butler. "Found a replacement already? You didn't waste any time, did you?"

Stella felt a profound exhaustion. She picked up the last bag of trash and moved to walk past him.

He blocked her path, his face a mask of fury. "You're not going anywhere until you explain this."