THE BILLIONAIRE'S PHOENIX

I can still smell her. The scent of dark roses and something uniquely her still lingers on my fingers. I close my eyes for a moment, leaning my head back against the plush leather seat. It’s a special kind of torture. I was so close to her, close enough to touch, and all I could do was exchange a few polite words. My hands had twitched with the urge to hold her face, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. But if I had, she would have slapped me hard and rightly marked me as a creepy pervert. The whole meeting was my doing, of course. There was no real need for a designer to be there, but I insisted. I just wanted to see her up close, to see if she remembered me from that brief moment at the party. And she did. I could see the flicker of recognition in those sharp blue eyes before her professional mask slammed back into place. That small acknowledgment, for some reason, satisfied a deep, primal part of me. But what I didn't expect was to catch her. When she stumbled, it was pure instinct. My body moved before my mind could. Holding her felt… right. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and her fingers had clutched the fabric of my blazer, holding on tight. My hand was splayed across her lower back, feeling the delicate arch of her spine, while my other hand held her arm, steadying her. It lasted only a few seconds, but the memory is burned into my mind. It’s been fifteen minutes since I left Aethelred House, and I can’t stop replaying the moment. “Sir, the meeting with Ethan Croft is scheduled for 11 am today,” Simon says from the seat beside the driver, pulling me from my thoughts. I push the image of Vanessa aside for now and check my watch. Twenty minutes left. “Tell me my schedule for the rest of the day.” Simon consults his tablet. “After Mr. Croft, you have a lunch with the architects for the new waterfront property at 1 p.m. Then, a 3 p.m. conference call with the Hong Kong office regarding the shipping logistics.” He then adds, “Oh, and the Director called. He’s called for a board meeting next week to discuss the quarterly expansion strategy.” I give a short nod, making a mental note to call my father back once I’m in the office. My patience is wearing thin. I need a distraction, or rather, the one distraction I can’t stop thinking about. “Simon, the dossier on Vanessa Ashford,” I say, my voice a low command. He hands me the thin file. I’m impatient, hungry for more. The information is frustratingly basic. She was originally from here, in Brooklyn, but five years ago, she moved to Santorini with her brother. That’s it. There’s no mention of her parents at all. No records, no obituaries, nothing. It’s a void, and that’s suspicious. “The agents are on it, sir,” Simon says, sensing my frustration. “But they’re hitting walls. It’s like her life before Santorini just… doesn’t exist.” I let out an impatient groan, staring out the tinted window at the blur of the city. What is she hiding? What happened to her? “Keep digging,” I tell him, my tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care what it takes. I want to know everything.” ~ “Thank you for accepting my request for a meeting, Mr. Morrison,” Ethan Croft says, a slick, practiced smile on his face as he settles into the chair across from my desk. I give a short nod, my eyes scanning him. He’s well-dressed, confident, but there’s a hunger in his eyes that he can’t quite hide. And all I can think about is the memory of Vanessa Ashford staring at him across that crowded room. That same intense, focused look. The question of whether they know each other lingers in the back of my mind, a persistent, irritating itch I can’t scratch. I lean back, crossing my legs. “You’ve been… persistent, Mr. Croft. It seemed you wouldn’t take no for an answer,” I say, a small, cool smile playing on my lips. I see a flicker of annoyance, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth at my little jab, but he keeps the smile firmly in place. He can’t afford to lose his composure. Not here. Croft Textiles International has shown steady growth over the last four years, which is fine for a mid-tier company. Their numbers are solid, but there’s nothing groundbreaking about them. There’s no real, compelling business reason for Morrison World to collaborate with them. The only reason he’s sitting in my office is because of her. Because I wanted to see the man who held her attention. Ethan launches into his pitch, his voice smooth. “As I outlined in my proposal, a partnership would allow Morrison World to integrate a fully-vetted, domestic textile supply chain, guaranteeing quality and reducing overseas shipping delays for your retail divisions.” I smirk. It’s the same song and dance. “Tell me, Mr. Croft, why should Morrison World, with all its resources, choose to invest in you? What makes you different from the dozen other textile firms knocking on my door?” He sits up straighter, puffing out his chest. “Our commitment to innovation and our agile business model allows us to adapt where larger corporations cannot. We offer a personal touch.” It’s the same empty talk every desperate businessman uses. Truly boring. I counter, pointing out a minor flaw in his last quarter’s projections. He fumbles for a moment, his answer a bit too rehearsed. Greed is a human tendency, but this guy is just transparently opportunistic. I throw him a curveball, a hypothetical market crash scenario, just to see how he thinks on his feet. He wasn’t expecting it. His expression tightens, and his answer is generic, full of corporate buzzwords with no real substance. I’m almost done. I stand up, signaling the end of our time. “It was… informative to meet you, Mr. Croft.” But he doesn’t take the hint. He stays seated, a desperate look in his eyes. “Mr. Morrison, I am far more capable than my company’s current profile suggests. For instance, I single-handedly led the Ricci merger on behalf of the Ashford Group six years ago.” The name ‘Ashford’ piques a bit of my attention. I narrow my eyes. “Is that so?” I’ve never heard his name in connection with that project. Of course, I wasn’t CEO then; my father was handling that side of the business. “It’s the truth,” he insists, leaning forward. “Well, that has nothing to do with me,” I tell him with a dismissive scoff. “That was my father’s project. This meeting is over.” Ethan Croft visibly swallows his words, his face flushing. He stands, forcing another thank you before he practically flees my office. The moment the door clicks shut, I press the intercom. “Simon. Get in here.” He enters almost immediately. “Sir?” “Pull all the files on the Ricci project. The joint venture between us and the Ashford Group, from six years ago. I want to see everything.” “Certainly, sir,” Simon replies. “It will be on your desk in fifteen minutes.” He turns to leave but pauses at the door. “Also, sir, the agents have just received a new data packet on Vanessa Ashford. They said it’s fragmented, but it’s something. I’ll bring it to you now.” A spark of anticipation cuts through my frustration. “Do it.” A moment later, Simon returns and places a thin file on my desk. I open it, my eyes scanning the pages quickly. But the spark dies just as fast. It’s more of the same—confirmed details about her education, her professional accolades, her property in Santorini. There is nothing about her parents. No marriage certificate, no death certificates, no old addresses. The black hole surrounding the five-year gap in her life remains utterly impenetrable. It’s the same goddamn thing. I slam the file shut. “This is useless.” Simon remains perfectly still. “The lead agent informed me that the level of encryption and data wiping on her past is… highly advanced, sir. It’s not just hidden…it’s as if the traces were never there to begin with. They said it’s the kind of clean slate usually reserved for people in witness protection or…” “Or what?” I press, my voice low. “Or for those with the resources and motive to truly disappear.” My private line buzzes, cutting off Simon’s troubling observation. The screen flashes FATHER. I dismiss Simon with a wave of my hand. “Bring me the files the moment they’re here.” I wait for the door to click shut before I answer, my voice even. “Father.” His tone is as composed as ever, but I can hear the subtle undercurrent of a man who doesn’t like being out of the loop. “Ceron. Simon informs me you’ve authorized a significant investment into Aethelred House. I wasn’t notified of this prior to the commitment. I trust you have a compelling strategic reason for diverting capital into what seems, on the surface, to be a vanity project?” He leaves the question hanging, a clear demand for justification. I lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the city skyline. I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t say because of a woman. Because her scent of dark roses is stuck in my mind and her past is a locked vault I need to crack open. “It’s not a vanity project,” I reply coolly. “It’s a strategic entry into the luxury goods market. Aethelred’s brand value is skyrocketing, and their upcoming Winter Couture collection is predicted to be a global event. Aligning Morrison World with that level of cultural influence opens doors to a new, high-net-worth demographic we’ve been struggling to capture. It’s a branding play, and the ROI on perception can be far greater than that of raw materials.” There’s a pause on the other end. I can almost hear him weighing my words, looking for the flaw. “A branding play,” he repeats, his tone neutral. “It’s an unconventional move. I hope your confidence in their designs isn’t… overly personal.” The comment hits a little too close to home. My jaw tightens slightly. “My confidence is in the data and the market shift, Father. Nothing more.” “See that it is,” he says, the warning clear. “The board will be watching this closely.” The line goes dead. I set the phone down and let out a sigh. He’s right to be suspicious. This is personal. But it’s also becoming something more. The deeper I dig into Vanessa Ashford, the more the mystery around her pulls me in. An investment in her world is the easiest way to stay close, to watch, to understand. And if it makes business sense along the way, all the better.