1
January 13th
My name echoes through the dark, colliding with the rush in my ears. Dizziness sends my head into a tailspin, and I stumble back until the door braces me, holding me upright as my eyes reject what’s in front of me.
Because my mind is splitting down the middle—one half still drowning in weeks of crushing grief while the other processes the miracle of his presence.
That hoarse whisper shapes my name again, and Iknowit’s him.
The ghost of Sebastian Stone.
Moving toward me in the darkness.
Flesh and blood.
Alive.
Just as my knees buckle, a small squeak escapes my throat.
“I’ve got you,” he says, catching me before I hit the floor.
His arms lock around me as the world tilts, and the steadythump-thumpof his heart drags me back, beat by beat. I can’tget a single word out to question the how or why. None of it matters.
Because Sebastian isalive.
That word loops in my mind as my eyes adjust to the unlit room, bringing his face into focus. Inky black hair falls in disarray, no trace of the blond I used to run my fingers through. Suddenly, the masked man I glimpsed at the ball comes back to me.
So familiar in stature, yet so out of place with that hair color.
“I thought I saw you…that was really you downstairs?”
“It was me.”
“How?”
“It’s a long story.” He buries his face in the crook of my neck, and we hold each other while the unbelievable trembles through us both. I have no idea how long we stand together, fused as one. I only know that everything feels right in my world.
Eventually, he pulls back and cradles my cheeks, thumbs wiping away drops of fragile hope, and we stare at each other.
Soundless and unmoving.
The kind of quiet that hums with life and reunion, bearing witness to souls bound, lost, and found again. I could live forever like this, wrapped in his arms without the clutter of words.
But even forever has a time limit.
An electronic chime slices through our sanctuary, followed by a sharp click as the mechanical lock disengages.
Sebastian’s blue eyes flash.
Someone is seconds away from entering my suite.
With the grace of a lion, he pulls me deeper into the room before slipping into the wardrobe alone.
I don’t have time to gather my wits. Light from the hall spills across the floor, outlining the familiar silhouette of Oliver. He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him as he flicks on alamp. I blink against the sudden brightness, my gaze locking on the man who reshaped the ruins of my life these past few weeks.
Now I wish I could take back every treacherous second.
“You’ve been crying,” he says, reaching me in three long strides. His warm brown eyes track the wet streaks on my cheeks, the uneven rise of my chest, the way my arms hang limp at my sides. “What’s wrong?”