THE BILLIONAIRE'S PHOENIX

There's a saying about rain, that it washes everything clean. As I watch the droplets streak down my windowpane, I find myself hoping it's not true. Some things shouldn't be washed away. Some stains are meant to remain.

It's been raining since morning, a gray curtain that has turned the city into a watercolor painting of gloom. The sky is the color of bruised silk, and the world feels quiet and muffled. It's a perfect day for killing someone, I think idly. The atmosphere matches the violence of my thoughts.

On my computer screen, the live video feed from Ethan Croft's house glows. He's in his home office, and he's been sitting there, mostly still, for the past hour. I wonder what he's doing. The camera is positioned on the bookshelf facing his desk, so I can see his troubled expression, but I can't see his laptop screen. It's a small frustration.

A slow smirk touches my lips as I remember the scene from two days ago. The pure horror on his face in his corporate office. The way his eyes bulged, the strangled sound he made before he slumped over his desk, unconscious. It was everything I had hoped for.

Of course, I had to tidy up afterwards. I'd slipped out, still wearing the mask of Beatrice Diaz, but I knew there was going to be a problem. The real Beatrice would eventually contact him, wondering why he'd stood her up. But that's a minor issue. No one is going to believe a man who claims he was haunted by his dead wife. No one saw me but him.

My first stop was the building's maintenance room. The two guards were easy to distract. Inside, it was simple. Santos, my old friend back in Santorini, taught me well. A few commands, and every digital trace of Beatrice Diaz entering or leaving the executive floor was wiped from the system.

On my way out, I even passed the same receptionist. The one with the bright smile. "Miss Diaz! I hope your meeting went well?" she chirped.

Before she could say another word, I gently pulled her aside. "I need you to erase my name from the visitor log. Right now."

Her smile vanished. "Oh, I can't do that, ma'am. It's against company policy, and–"

I didn't let her finish. Every human has a price, a weakness. For some, it's fear; for others, it's greed. For her, it was a combination of both. A discreet but significant bribe, followed by a softly spoken threat about the consequences of disobeying a very powerful client, did the trick. Her eyes widened, and her fingers flew across the tablet, deleting the entry. I made her promise that if Mr. Croft asked, she saw no one named Beatrice Diaz that day.

A sudden yawn takes me by surprise, stretching my jaw. I push back from my desk and go to stand before the floor-to-ceiling window. The rain blurs the sharp edges of the skyscrapers, making the world outside look soft and dreamlike.

My thoughts drift to the rest of my day. I'm supposed to meet with an investor later, which is unusual. Typically, Dahlia handles all of that. But she called me this morning, explaining that this particular investor specifically requested to meet the lead designer for the Winter Couture collection. It's a strange request, but not entirely unheard of. Some people like to put a face to the art, I suppose.

Weird, but whatever. I let out a sigh, the weight of the memory pressing down on me, and return to my chair. My eyes drift back to the desktop screen, but this time, I freeze, leaning in to watch more intently. She's there. The mistress is inside the house now.

Natasha Biggs. The name alone is a shard of glass in my heart. She was once my best friend. We were inseparable from high school all the way through college. I truly believed I had found an angel in human form, a sister I'd chosen for myself. I never, in my wildest nightmares, imagined that the very same best friend would be the one to stab me in the back, so deeply and so cruelly that the wound would never truly heal. The betrayal of finding her in my bed with my husband was a pain I still can't fully articulate.

What's so bitterly, tragically funny is that the same day I discovered them, I also discovered I was pregnant. The highest joy and the lowest despair, crashing into me within hours of each other.

And if it wasn't for them... if it wasn't for the incident that happened later... my child would have been safe. My child would have been four years old now. My child would have been–

The sharp, shrill ring of my desk phone makes me flinch violently, yanking me from the abyss. I take a sharp, steadying breath, my hand trembling slightly as I pick up the receiver.

"Miss Ashford, the Director is asking for you in her office," announces Misha, Dahlia's secretary.

"I'll be right there. Thank you," I say, my voice miraculously even. I hang up, pressing my palms flat against the cool wood of the desk.

There's no point in dwelling in the past. But that doesn't mean I will ever forget it. Never. I can never forget, and I will make sure the ones who harmed me will also never be allowed to forget.

Pushing the dark thoughts into a locked box in my mind, I smooth down my dress and make my way to Dahlia's corner office on the floor above. A few minutes later, I reach her door, knock twice, and wait.

"Come in!" Dahlia's cheerful voice calls out.

I enter and see her sitting in one of the plush armchairs. A man in a tailored charcoal-grey suit is sitting opposite her, his back to me. I put on a professional smile and walk over.

"Ah, perfect timing," Dahlia says, beaming. "This is Vanessa Ashford, our brilliant lead designer for the Winter Couture collection." She gestures to me, then to the investor.

The man rises, turning to face me, and for a split second, my breath catches. It's him. I know this face. I know those piercing, cool grey eyes that had studied me so intently in the crowd at the after-party. He offers a small, composed smile and extends his hand.

"Hello, Miss Ashford," he says. His voice is deep. I hadn't truly noticed it before.

"Hello," I reply, placing my hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and brief. I take the seat across from him.

Dahlia continues, "This is Ceron Morrison, of Morrison World." Morrison World. The name alone signifies immense, old-money influence. I nod in acknowledgment as his gaze settles on me. There's an intensity in the way he looks at me-not lecherous, but... deeply observant. Maybe I'm just being oversensitive.

"We were just discussing the vision for the Winter Couture show," Dahlia begins, steering the conversation. "Ceron is particularly interested in the narrative behind the collection."

Ceron's eyes never leave mine. "Yes," he says. "Dahlia tells me it's inspired by the theme of 'Phoenix.' A story of rebirth from the ashes. I'm curious, Miss Ashford, what personal resonance does that myth hold for you?"

Dahlia looks at me, expecting a thoughtful answer. I meet his gaze squarely, "It's about transformation, Mr. Morrison," I say. "The idea that something far more powerful and beautiful can rise from a complete and utter destruction of the old. It's not about forgetting the fire, but about being forged by it."

"Interesting," he says, a subtle hint of amusement coloring his deep voice. It feels like he's not just commenting on the theme, but on me.

Then Dahlia interjects, moving the conversation back to business. "The phoenix narrative will be woven through the entire collection, from the opening piece to the finale. We see it as a powerful statement for the modern woman."

Ceron nods, his gaze finally breaking from mine to address Dahlia. "A compelling angle. My foundation has a growing interest in narratives of female resilience and renewal. It aligns perfectly with our new philanthropic arm."

I listen as their conversation flows from marketing synergies to global outreach, piecing together that Morrison World is a vast, privately held conglomerate with fingers in everything from tech to real estate, and apparently, now, high-level philanthropy. Throughout the discussion, I feel the weight of his gaze flick back to me, twice, then a third time. It's not overt, but it's unmistakable.

He then turns the conversation back to me. "Your previous collection, the one that debuted in Milan, was praised for its architectural precision. It's quite a different energy from this new, more organic theme. What inspired that shift?"

I offer a rehearsed answer. "A designer must evolve. My time in Santorini allowed me to appreciate a different kind of beauty, one that's less structured and more emotional."

He nods slowly, as if filing the information away. "Santorini. A beautiful place to call home. It suits you."

The personal note in his question throws me off. Why does an investor care about where I live or my creative journey? His questions don't feel like a business discussion. They feel more like an... intrusion.

We talk for a few more minutes, and I feel a wave of relief as the meeting finally winds down. I glance at Dahlia, my eyes subtly asking if I am free to go. She gives a tiny shake of her head, a silent signal to stay put.

We all stand up. He shakes Dahlia's hand first. "It's a pleasure, Dahlia. I look forward to our partnership," he says smoothly.

Then he turns to me. I keep my professional smile firmly in place and offer my hand. His hand is much bigger than mine, and surprisingly rough, not soft like a typical businessman's. The brief contact sends a little, unwelcome jump through my heart, which annoys me. I don't like my body reacting to a man like this.

"I look forward to seeing your work come to life, Miss Ashford," he adds, his grey eyes holding mine for a moment too long.

"Of course," I say, my voice a bit tight.

I take a step back, eager to put some distance between us, but my heel catches on the leg of the chair behind me. My balance vanishes, and I stumble, my arms flailing for a second. A gasp catches in my throat. Oh no.

Before I can fall, strong hands shoot out and catch me, one firm on my back, the other gripping my arm. He moves with shocking speed. He holds me steady until my feet are firmly under me again, his grip both sure and surprisingly gentle.

The entire world seems to shrink to the points of contact. The warmth of his hand through the fabric of my dress, the solid strength of his arm. My heart isn't just jumping now; it is hammering.

I look up, my face flushed, right into those piercing grey eyes. They are much closer now.