Chapter 7
The penthouse was a fortress in the sky.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Central Park, a dark rectangle in the glittering grid of Manhattan.
"Alfred will show you to your suite," Clemente said. He was leaning on a cane now, finally allowing himself some weakness in the privacy of his home.
The butler, Alfred, was a man of few words. He led Cleora to a guest wing that was larger than her entire childhood home. The closet was already filled. Rows of designer clothes, all in her size, all in her style-minimalist, sharp, monochromatic.
"He's thorough," Cleora whispered to herself, running her hand over a silk blouse.
Dinner was served at a long table. They sat at opposite ends. It felt like a boardroom meeting with silverware.
"The contract requires public appearances," Clemente said, cutting his steak. "We need to sell the narrative. Love at first sight. A whirlwind romance."
"People won't believe it," Cleora said. "I'm a pariah."
"People believe what I pay them to believe."
Cleora's phone buzzed on the table.
Trent.
She looked at Clemente. "It's him."
"Answer it," Clemente said. "Speaker."
Cleora tapped the screen. "Hello, Trent."
"Cleora, baby," Trent's voice oozed through the speaker. "Where are you? Elena is going crazy. We're worried about your mental state. Come meet me at The Blue Bar. Let's talk about your inheritance."
It was the same trap. In the last life, she had gone. He had drugged her drink and photographers had snapped pictures of her stumbling out, looking drunk and disheveled.
Clemente watched her, his face impassive. He mouthed one word: Trap.
Cleora smiled. She leaned closer to the phone.
"Trent," she said, her voice cold and crisp as winter air. "You are calling a private number that is now the property of the Pennington family office. Any further unsolicited contact will be logged and forwarded to my legal counsel. I trust you're familiar with their hourly rate."
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line.
"Cleora?" Trent sounded confused. "What are you talking about? Who is that?"
"I have to go, Trent," Cleora said, her voice dropping to a dismissive whisper. "I have a board meeting to prepare for."
She hung up.
Clemente took a sip of his wine. A flicker of approval in his dark eyes was the only praise she received. "You learn fast."
"I learned from the best," she said.
After dinner, Cleora retreated to her room. She locked the door. She opened her laptop and logged into a secure server.
Username: Ghost.
She accessed the cloud drive she had hidden years ago. It contained terabytes of data. Every sketch, every CAD file, every fabric swatch she had ever created for Hart Brands. All of them had been stolen and credited to Cristi.
But Cleora had a secret.
She opened a file for the upcoming Fall Collection. She zoomed in on the intricate floral pattern of the flagship dress.
Hidden in the vines, microscopic and invisible to the naked eye, were letters. C.H.
She opened an email client. She typed an address: K.Page@TechNexus.com.
Kael Page. The tech billionaire who hated the Hart family because Beatrice had destroyed his father's business decades ago.
Subject: The Fall of the Hart Empire.
Body: I have a business proposal. It involves a ghost designer, a derivative fashion launch, and the shorting of a certain overvalued stock. Interested in a partnership?
She hit send.
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