Ghost of My Heart

The sharp click of Louboutins echoed like war drums across the marble floor of Sterling & Vale's top-floor boardroom.

Alina Sterling didn't walk, she commanded.

At twenty-eight, she was the youngest self-made billionaire in the city. And she wore that title like armor. Her dark hair was twisted into a sleek knot, her eyes lined with razor precision, and her expression was cool steel. Beauty with a brain, and the board knew better than to underestimate her.

Which is why their betrayal sliced through her like glass.

"Married," she repeated, voice clipped, every syllable laced with fury. "You want me to get married? or hand over my company to that snake?"

Across the table, Uncle Gregory leaned back in his chair, smug as ever. A vulture in a custom suit. "It's not personal, Alina. Your father's will was clear. A married heir keeps the company. Otherwise, it reverts to family hands."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Of course it came to this.

"Then I'll get married," she snapped.

Gregory's smile widened.

"But not to someone you pick."

Because Alina didn't believe in love. Not anymore. Not in a world where contracts mattered more than loyalty and betrayal came wrapped in blood ties and boardroom handshakes. Love was weakness, and weakness got you devoured.

That night, rage still simmering in her veins, Alina found herself in the last place anyone would expect: a dive bar on the city's edge.

Leo's Tavern reeked of spilt liquor and shattered dreams. Neon signs buzzed overhead like dying fireflies. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone was running from something.

Including her.

She took a seat at the far end of the bar, legs crossed, her black silk dress hugging her like a whispered secret. Her phone buzzed again on the counter, Gregory. She flipped it face-down without a glance and raised a hand for a drink.

The bartender walked over, pausing as his gaze swept over her clutch, her dress, her diamond watch.

"You sure you're in the right place, Miss Vogue?" he asked, brow raised.

She didn't even blink. "You always talk to customers like that, or just the ones who tip better than your rent?"

That earned a slow, crooked grin.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and blue-collar handsome. Late twenties, maybe. Rugged in a way that whispered of bar fights and bad decisions. His hands looked like they knew work. His jawline looked like it could cut glass.

"Whiskey?" he asked.

"Neat. The good stuff..if you've got it."

He turned to pour, but someone jostled him from behind. The glass slipped. Crashed.

A splash of brown liquid stained her blouse, dripping down the silk like a slow insult.

For a moment, the entire bar went silent.

Alina stood slowly, holding the edge of the ruined top between two fingers. Her expression was ice.