The Billionaire's Disguise: Rising From The Ashes

The motorcade bypassed the main terminals at O'Hare and drove straight onto the tarmac of the private hangars. A Gulfstream G650 waited, its engines already whining with potential energy.

Ace walked up the air stairs, his heavy work boots clunking against the metal. The sound was jarring against the sleek sophistication of the jet.

Inside, the cabin was a palace of cream leather and mahogany. A man with a tape measure around his neck stood waiting.

"We need to get you out of those rags, sir," Sen said, stepping in behind him.

Ace stood still in the center of the aisle. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and let it drop to the floor. Then the undershirt.

The tailor gasped.

Ace's torso was a map of violence. Scars crisscrossed his skin-burn marks, knife slashes, and the puckered, ugly crater of a bullet wound on his shoulder.

Ace caught the tailor's horrified stare in the mirror. His eyes were dead.

"A gift from a friend in Donetsk," Ace muttered.

The tailor swallowed hard and dropped his gaze to the floor, his hands shaking slightly as he began to measure Ace's inseam.

Sen approached with a crystal glass. "30-year-old Macallan, sir."

Ace took it. He downed the amber liquid in one swallow. The burn hit his throat, grounding him. It tasted like money and regret.

He sat in one of the captain's chairs and opened a laptop. He typed Brittni Ramirez into the search bar.

Her latest PR interview popped up. "Female Empowerment in Tech: How CEO Brittni Ramirez is Changing the Game."

He scrolled down. There was a mention of her team. Strategic Advisor: Jefferson Medina.

Ace clicked on Jefferson's profile. It was a hollow shell of buzzwords and failed ventures. The man was a parasite, feeding off whatever host would let him in.

"Sen," Ace said without looking up. "Run a deep background check on Jefferson Medina. Every debt, every ex-girlfriend, every parking ticket."

"Already in progress, sir," Sen replied from the galley. "He's a bottom-feeder."

The jet began to taxi. The acceleration pressed Ace back into the soft leather. He closed his eyes.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw his mother's face. He smelled gasoline. He heard the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal.

Two hours later, the jet touched down on a private strip in Westchester, New York.

A fleet of Rolls-Royce Cullinans waited on the tarmac, their black paint gleaming under the floodlights.

Ace stepped off the plane. He was no longer wearing jeans. He was dressed in a charcoal Tom Ford suit that had been altered on the flight. It fit him like a second skin, hiding the scars, hiding the soldier.

He checked his reflection in the car window. The construction worker was gone. The Ghost was back.

His new phone buzzed. He glanced at it. The old number was forwarded for one hour before termination.

Brittni (5 missed texts).

"Ace, where are you? I'm home and the door is locked?"

"Are you seriously ghosting me because of a post? It was just business!"

"Pick up the phone!"

Ace felt a cold, dry amusement. She thought this was a lover's quarrel. She thought she could explain away a knife in his back.

He didn't reply. He tapped the screen once. Block Contact.

He stepped into the back of the Rolls-Royce. The door sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss.

"To the Estate, Sen," Ace said, staring straight ahead. "Let's see if my siblings remember how to bleed."