Chapter 1: The Ghost of Northwood High

The elevator's brass doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the forty-second floor of Thorne Tower. Elara Vance stepped into the marble-floored lobby, her heels clicking against the pristine surface as she adjusted the portfolio case slung over her shoulder. The space screamed power and money—exactly what she'd expected from one of the city's most influential corporate dynasties.

This is it, she thought, smoothing down her charcoal blazer. The break I've been working toward for five years.

The receptionist, a woman with silver hair pulled into a severe chignon, barely glanced up from her computer. "Ms. Vance? Mr. Thorne will see you now. Conference room three, down the hall."

Elara's heart hammered against her ribs as she walked the endless corridor lined with abstract art that probably cost more than her annual rent. She'd spent weeks preparing for this presentation, poring over every detail of her design proposal for the Thorne penthouse renovation. Landing Julian Thorne as a client would catapult her small interior design firm into the major leagues. No more cramped apartments and modest budgets—this was her shot at the big time.

She paused outside the frosted glass doors of conference room three, taking a steadying breath. Through the translucent barrier, she could make out two figures: a tall man in a dark suit and a smaller, more delicate silhouette. Julian Thorne and his design consultant, no doubt. She'd heard he was particular about his projects, often bringing in a second opinion.

Elara pushed open the door, her practiced smile already in place. "Mr. Thorne, I'm Elara Vance from Vance Design Studios. Thank you so much for considering—"

The words died in her throat.

The woman sitting beside Julian Thorne turned, and Elara's world tilted on its axis. Golden hair fell in perfect waves around a face that haunted her nightmares, complete with those same cold blue eyes and that poisonous smile.

Seraphina Wells. Except now she wore the surname Thorne.

No. No, no, no.

"Ella-ra," Seraphina purred, drawing out the syllables like she was savoring each one. "What a delightful surprise. Julian, darling, I should have mentioned—Elara and I are old friends from high school."

Friends. The word hit Elara like a physical blow. She could still hear the laughter echoing through Northwood High's hallways, still feel the sting of cruel words whispered just loud enough for her to hear. Still remember the day Seraphina had orchestrated her public humiliation in front of the entire cafeteria, reducing her to tears over a boy who'd never even looked her way.

Julian Thorne rose from his chair, and Elara's breath caught for an entirely different reason. He was imposing in a way that had nothing to do with his height—though he easily topped six feet. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and those grey eyes seemed to see straight through her professional facade to the terrified teenage girl underneath.

"Ms. Vance." His voice was deep, controlled, with just a hint of curiosity as he glanced between her and his sister. "Please, have a seat."

Sister. Of course Seraphina was his sister. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Elara forced her legs to move, settling into the chair across from them with what she hoped looked like composure. Her portfolio felt heavy in her lap, all those carefully crafted designs suddenly seeming inadequate.

"So," Julian continued, his fingers steepled before him, "Seraphina tells me you two have history."

"We were in the same graduating class," Elara managed, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest. "Small town, you know how it is."

Seraphina's laugh tinkled like broken glass. "Oh, we were much closer than that, weren't we, Elara? She was such a sweet little thing. Always so... sensitive."

The emphasis on the last word sent ice through Elara's veins. She recognized that tone, the way Seraphina could make any word sound like an insult while maintaining perfect plausible deniability.

Julian's gaze sharpened, moving between them with the calculating precision of a man accustomed to reading people. "I see. Well, let's focus on the matter at hand. I understand you have a proposal for the penthouse renovation?"

Professional. She could be professional. Elara opened her portfolio with hands that barely trembled, spreading her mood boards and sketches across the polished conference table. "I've designed a concept that balances modern luxury with warm, livable spaces. The current penthouse is beautiful but feels more like a museum than a home."

She launched into her presentation, her confidence returning as she discussed color palettes and furniture layouts. This was her element, her expertise. Julian listened intently, asking pointed questions that demonstrated he'd done his homework on her previous work.

"Impressive," he said when she finished. "Your portfolio shows remarkable range, and this concept... it's exactly what the space needs."

Relief flooded through her, followed immediately by triumph. She'd done it. Despite the shock of seeing Seraphina, she'd delivered a flawless pitch.

"However," Julian continued, and her heart sank, "I have one condition."

Of course he does.

"I want Seraphina involved in every aspect of the project. She has exquisite taste, and as my sister, her input is invaluable to me."

The words hit Elara like a physical blow. Work with Seraphina? Spend weeks, possibly months, in close quarters with the woman who'd made her teenage years a living hell?

Seraphina's smile was pure venom disguised as sweetness. "Oh, Julian, what a wonderful idea. Elara and I will have so much fun catching up while we work together. Won't we, Ellie?"

The old nickname—the one Seraphina had used mockingly in high school—made Elara's skin crawl. But Julian was watching her expectantly, and this contract represented everything she'd worked for. Her escape from the small-town girl she used to be, her chance to prove she belonged in this world of power and influence.

"Of course," Elara heard herself say. "I'd be delighted to collaborate with Seraphina."

Julian's smile was sharp-edged and satisfied. "Excellent. My assistant will have the contracts drawn up by tomorrow. The budget is, as we discussed, unlimited within reason. I want this project completed in eight weeks."

Eight weeks. Eight weeks of working with the woman who'd nearly destroyed her sense of self-worth a decade ago.

"One more thing," Julian added, rising from his chair. "I'll be taking a hands-on approach to this project. The penthouse is my personal residence, after all. I trust that won't be a problem?"

Elara looked up at him, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the predatory grace in his movements. There was something dangerous about Julian Thorne, something that called to a part of her she'd thought long buried.

"No problem at all," she said, though every instinct screamed that she was walking into a trap.

As they shook hands to seal the deal, Julian's fingers lingered against hers a moment longer than necessary. The contact sent an unexpected jolt of electricity up her arm, and she saw something flicker in those grey eyes—something hot and assessing that had nothing to do with interior design.

Seraphina noticed too. Her smile turned even more predatory, if that were possible.

"This is going to be such an adventure," she said, her voice silk over steel. "Just like old times."

Elara gathered her materials with shaking hands, desperate to escape before her composure cracked completely. She'd gotten the contract—the biggest opportunity of her career. But as she walked toward the elevator, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just signed much more than a design agreement.

She'd signed her name to eight weeks of pure hell, trapped between her past and a man whose very presence seemed to set her blood on fire.

The elevator doors closed behind her, and Elara finally allowed herself to slump against the wall. In the polished brass, her reflection looked pale and shaken—nothing like the confident designer who'd walked in twenty minutes ago.

What have I gotten myself into?

The answer, she suspected, was more than she could handle. But backing down now would mean admitting defeat, letting Seraphina win again. And Elara Vance was done being anyone's victim.

Even if it killed her.