The Ghost Heiress: Rising From Shadows

The elevator doors to the penthouse slid open with a soft chime that sounded like an apology. Katharina stepped into the foyer. She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner for the inner door. It flashed yellow twice before turning green. The system was lagging.

She didn't turn on the lights. The glow from the Manhattan skyline bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across the marble floors.

She walked past the living room, ignoring the ten-foot Basquiat painting that she had convinced Grafton to buy three years ago. She went straight to the suite she was assigned when acting as Grafton's private medical counsel.

She pulled a small, battered duffel bag from the back of her closet. It was the bag she used for "site visits"-her code for the underground medical consultations Grafton knew nothing about.

She moved quickly. She packed two pairs of jeans, three plain t-shirts, her sketchbook, and a worn copy of Gray's Anatomy. She bypassed the jewelry box. The diamond tennis bracelets, the Patek Philippe watches, the heavy platinum chains-she left them all. They were heavy, and she needed to be light.

The front door slammed downstairs. The vibration traveled up through the soles of her feet.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the floating staircase. Grafton was home.

Katharina zipped the bag. She slung it over her shoulder and walked out to meet him.

Grafton was in his study. The door was open. He had thrown his tuxedo jacket on the leather sofa and was loosening his tie with jerky, violent movements. The blue folder sat on his massive mahogany desk, unopened.

He hit the intercom button on his desk phone. "Get in here."

Katharina walked in. She didn't sit in the guest chair. She stood in the center of the room, the duffel bag hitting her hip.

Grafton didn't look at her. He was staring at the Bloomberg terminal screens mounted on the wall, watching the after-hours trading numbers.

"What's the budget for this little rebellion?" he asked, his back to her. "How much is it going to cost me to get you to unpack that bag?"

"It's not a negotiation, Grafton," Katharina said. "It's a notification."

Grafton turned slowly. His eyes swept over her plain clothes, the cheap bag. He let out a short, dry laugh.

"You have nothing," he said, leaning back against the desk. "Your trust allowance is discretionary. The credit cards are supplementary. You don't even own the phone in your pocket. You walk out that door, you're destitute."

Katharina didn't flinch. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She placed it on the desk next to the blue folder.

"Asset reconciliation," she said. "A list of services rendered over five years. Proprietary compound formulation, schedule coordination, crisis PR, and private health monitoring for your neurodegenerative condition."

Grafton glanced at the paper and sneered. "You think being a family charity case is a billable job?"

He walked to the wet bar and poured a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid splashed against the crystal.

"Apologize," he said, taking a sip. "Apologize for the scene at the gala, and I won't freeze your accounts tonight."

Katharina looked at his broad back. She realized he hadn't heard a single word she said. He was incapable of hearing her. To him, she was just background noise, a hum in the ventilation system that was occasionally annoying.

She slid the simple silver keycard for her suite off its lanyard. Her skin felt raw underneath.

She placed the keycard on top of the blue folder. Clink.

The sound was small, but in the silence of the room, it sounded like a gunshot.

Katharina turned and walked toward the door. Her boots made no sound on the Persian rug.

"Katharina!" Grafton barked.

She stopped, her hand on the doorframe.

"You walk out now," Grafton said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register, "and you are cut off. From everything. I will enforce every clause of your NDA. You'll never work in a legitimate medical capacity again."

Katharina's fingers dug into the wood of the doorframe. Her breath hitched. The image of Ainsley leaning on Harlow's shoulder flashed in her mind. The cruelty in her niece's eyes.

She turned her head slightly. She didn't look angry. She looked tired.

"Ainsley has already made her choice," Katharina said softly. "Just like you."

Grafton slammed his glass down. Whiskey sloshed over the rim, staining the wood.

Katharina walked out. She closed the heavy oak door behind her. She walked to the foyer, placed her main access fob on the console table, and stepped out into the hallway.

She didn't call the elevator. She took the stairs.