The Billionaire Hunting His Ghost Wife

Bryton stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in his private office. He rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers. The rough tobacco leaf scraped against his skin. The office door opened. Cassian walked in. His breathing was slightly elevated. "We found her," Cassian said. Bryton stopped rolling the cigar. He turned around. His eyes locked onto his assistant. "The hotel feeds were wiped," Cassian explained, pulling up a file on the tablet. "But we pulled the dashcam footage from a guest's car in the underground parking garage." Cassian swiped the screen. An image projected onto the wall. It was dark. The quality was terrible. A woman in an oversized coat was running toward the exit. She wore a black mask and large sunglasses. "Look at her right hand," Cassian pointed. Bryton narrowed his eyes. The woman's sleeve was pulled back slightly. A nasty, red scrape covered her wrist. Bryton's mind flashed back to the hotel room. He remembered pinning the woman's wrists to the wall. He remembered her struggling. The scrape matched the physical trauma of a fall from a balcony. "Run the facial recognition through the exposed jawline," Cassian said. "Cross-reference with the guest list." A photo popped up next to the grainy footage. It was Kianna Sosa. A B-list actress known for cheap reality shows. "She was at the Elysium that night for a producer's party," Cassian read from the file. "Her manager posted a tweet at 3:00 AM complaining about Kianna falling and scraping her wrist." Bryton stared at the photo of Kianna. She had heavy makeup, fake lips, and a vacant smile. A heavy, uncomfortable feeling settled in Bryton's gut. His instincts screamed at him. The woman in his arms that night fought like a wildcat. She felt cold, sharp, and unyielding. This actress looked soft and desperate. He’d briefly considered the Acevedo girl at the university—the name was too coincidental to ignore—but she’d shown no signs of a struggle or a fresh injury. This woman, however, had the mark. "Bring her to the private club," Bryton ordered. His voice was flat. He threw the unlit cigar into the trash can. "I want to see her myself." An hour later, at a cheap movie set in Queens. The director screamed at Kianna. She had missed her mark for the fifth time. Her manager, Morry, bowed and apologized profusely. Kianna rolled her eyes and chewed her gum. Four men in black suits walked onto the set. The crew went dead silent. Cassian stepped forward. He flashed a black badge. "Miss Sosa. You are coming with us." Ten minutes later, Kianna and Morry sat in the back of a stretched Lincoln. The leather seats squeaked under them. Cassian sat across from them. His face was carved from stone. He slid a thick non-disclosure agreement across the small table. "Sign this," Cassian said. "Acknowledge what happened in the Elysium Hotel suite, and you will be compensated beyond your imagination." Kianna stared at the paper. She opened her mouth to say she got drunk and fell down the stairs that night. Under the table, Morry's heavy shoe kicked Kianna's shin hard. Pain shot up her leg. Kianna snapped her mouth shut. She looked at Morry. His eyes were wide with frantic greed. He nodded slightly at the paper. Kianna's heart started to pound. She did not know what happened in that suite. But she knew money. Her hands shook. She picked up the pen and signed her name on the dotted line.