MIA
Mia's phone lay on the floor where it had fallen.
Screen cracked. Still showing the press conference. The detective talking. The officers standing in formation.
And in the background—that silhouette.
Her husband.
Standing.
Her hands shook as she picked up the phone. Rewound the footage. Watched it again. The way he held his shoulders. The angle of his head. That particular stillness she'd studied for five years across dinner tables and charity galas.
Elias Crane.
Not in his wheelchair.
At a police station.
At a press conference about the Ghost.
"No," she whispered to the empty apartment. "No, no, no—"
But the footage didn't change. He was there. Standing. Moving. Alive.
Not dying.
Maybe never dying.
Mia grabbed her keys.
She didn't think. Didn't plan. Just moved. Down the stairs because the elevator felt too slow. Into her car. Engine on. Pulling out of the parking garage before her brain could catch up to what her body already knew.
She needed to see him.
Needed to look him in the face and make him explain.
The penthouse was fifteen minutes from her apartment. Elias's real home—the place he'd offered her when they married. "You can stay here," he'd said on their wedding night. "Or keep your own place. Your choice."
She'd chosen her own place. Chosen distance. Chosen the arrangement they'd both agreed to.
Separate lives. Public appearances only. No intimacy. No expectations.
Just a contract.
But now—
Her phone rang. Unknown number. She ignored it.
It rang again. Different number. Still ignored.
A text came through: Mrs. Crane, this is Detective Morrison. We need to speak with you urgently.
She turned her phone off.
The city blurred past. Red lights. Stop signs. Other cars. None of it registered. She just drove, hands gripping the wheel, mind spinning with five years of memories that suddenly looked like lies.
The galas where he sat silent in his wheelchair. Was he faking then too?
The charity dinners where she'd cut his food because his hands "trembled too much." Had they ever trembled at all?
Their wedding day when he'd looked at her once with those medication-glazed eyes and said, "I'm sorry." What had he been apologizing for?
The penthouse building appeared ahead. Tall. Glass. Expensive. She'd been here maybe ten times total in five years. Always during the day. Always scheduled. Always with Damien present to maintain the professional distance.
Never at midnight.
Never alone.
Never without an invitation.
She parked in the underground garage. Her spot—the one with "Mrs. Crane" painted on the concrete—sat empty like always. Like she was expected. Like someone had known she'd come.
The elevator to the penthouse required a key card. She'd carried hers for five years, tucked in her wallet behind her driver's license. Never used it. Not once.
She used it now.
The elevator climbed. Twenty floors. Thirty. Forty. The numbers lit up one by one. Her reflection stared back from the polished walls. Same dark hair. Same pale face. Same woman who'd walked into a conference room this morning and walked out someone different.
Fifty.
The doors opened.
The penthouse was dark. No lights in the entryway. No sound. Just silence and shadows and the faint glow of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Elias?" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
Nothing.
She stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded too loud in the quiet.
"Elias, I know you're here."
Still nothing.
Mia moved forward slowly. Through the entryway. Past the kitchen she'd never cooked in. Toward the living room with furniture she'd never sat on.
This place was supposed to be her home. But it had always felt like a museum. Beautiful and cold and untouchable.
"I saw the press conference." Her voice echoed. "I saw you. Standing. So I know—"
A sound.
Faint. Coming from down the hall.
Not wheels on marble.
Not the mechanical whir of a motorized chair.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Getting closer.
Mia's breath caught. Her hand found the wall.
The footsteps continued. Steady. Unhurried. The sound of someone who'd been walking their entire life. Someone who'd never needed a wheelchair at all.
A door opened. The study. Light spilled into the hallway.
And then—
A silhouette appeared in the doorway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Standing perfectly straight.
He stepped into the light.
Elias Crane. Her husband. The man she'd married five years ago and barely knew.
No wheelchair behind him. No IV stand. No blanket across his lap. No trembling hands or medication-glazed stare.
Just him. Standing. Looking at her with eyes that were completely, impossibly awake.
Clear. Sharp. Focused.
Like he'd been awake the entire time.
"Hello, Mia," he said.
His voice sounded different without the medication slur. Deeper. Steadier. Real.
Mia opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Elias took a step forward. Then another. Moving like someone who'd never been sick a day in his life. His footsteps echoed in the quiet.
He walked toward her slowly. Not rushing. Not hesitating. Just walking.
Closing the distance between them.
Five years of distance.
Five years of separate lives and public performances and carefully maintained lies.
All of it collapsing with every step.
He stopped three feet away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see his face clearly for the first time without the mask of illness softening his features.
He looked different. Harder. Sharper. More alive than she'd ever seen him.
"You came," he said quietly.
"I saw—" Her voice cracked. "The press conference. The silhouette. I knew—"
"You knew it was me."
"Yes."
"Even though I was standing."
"Especially because you were standing." Mia's hands clenched into fists. "How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long have you been lying?" The words came out sharp. Angry. "How long have you been able to walk? To stand? To—" She gestured at him. At all of him. Standing there perfectly healthy. "To be this?"
Elias was quiet for a long moment. His eyes never left hers.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. No apology. No shame.
Just the truth.
"Five years," he said.
The words hit like a physical blow.
Five years.
Their entire marriage.
Every gala. Every dinner. Every carefully staged photo opportunity.
All of it. A lie.
"Five years," Mia repeated slowly. Her vision blurred. "You've been faking this entire time?"
"Yes."
"The wheelchair. The medication. The—the dying—"
"All of it."
"Why?" The question came out as barely a whisper.
Elias took another step forward. Now he was close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. Could smell his cologne. Could see the way his jaw tightened before he spoke.
"Because I needed everyone to think I was weak," he said. "Including you."
"Why me?"
"Especially you." His eyes burned into hers. "Because if you'd known the truth, you would've looked at me differently. Acted differently. And they would've seen it."
"Who? Who would've seen it?"
"The people who want me dead." Elias's voice dropped lower. "The people who would use you to get to me. The people who've been watching us both for five years waiting for one of us to make a mistake."
Mia's legs felt weak. "I don't understand."
"I know." He reached out slowly. His hand moved toward her face. She should step back. Should run. Should do anything except stand there.
But she couldn't move.
His fingers touched her jaw. Gentle. Warm. Real.
"The contract wasn't what you think," he said quietly. "It wasn't about money. It wasn't about appearances."
"Then what was it about?"
Elias's thumb brushed across her cheek. His eyes held hers.
"It was about keeping you alive."
Before Mia could respond, glass shattered.
The living room window exploded inward. Shards flew everywhere. Mia screamed.
Elias moved faster than she could process. His arm wrapped around her waist. He pulled her down hard. They hit the floor together as something whistled through the air where her head had been.
A bullet.
Someone was shooting at them.
Another window shattered. Then another. Bullets tore through the penthouse. Ripping into walls. Furniture. Glass raining down everywhere.
Elias covered her body with his. His weight pressed her into the floor. His heart beat fast against her back.
"Stay down," he growled in her ear.
"What's happening—"
"They found you." His voice was cold. Furious. "I knew they'd come for you. I just didn't think they'd do it tonight."
The shooting stopped.
Silence fell. Broken glass crunched under distant footsteps.
Elias's hand moved to his belt. Pulled out a gun. When had he gotten a gun?
He looked down at her. His face was different. Colder. Harder. This wasn't the sick man she'd married. This was someone else entirely.
"Listen to me very carefully," he said. "In about thirty seconds, men with guns are going to come through that door. They want you alive. Me, they'll kill on sight."
"Elias—"
"I need you to trust me." His eyes searched hers. "I know you have no reason to. I know I've lied to you for five years. But right now, in this moment, I need you to trust me."
Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer.
"Can you do that?" Elias asked. "Can you trust me?"
Mia stared up at the man she'd married. The stranger. The liar. The ghost.
The man who'd just thrown himself over her body to shield her from bullets.
"Yes," she whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes. Relief. Surprise. Something else she couldn't name.
The penthouse door exploded open.
Men in black masks poured inside. Four. Five. Six of them. All carrying guns.
Elias pulled Mia to her feet. Kept his body between her and the intruders.
The lead man raised his gun. Pointed it directly at Elias's chest.
"Ghost," the man said. "How nice to finally meet you."
Elias didn't move. "Victor sent you."
"Victor wants the girl. You can die here, or you can watch her die slowly over the next few days. Your choice."
Mia's blood ran cold.
Elias's grip on her arm tightened. "Third option," he said calmly.
"What's that?"
"None of you leave this building alive."
The man laughed. "There's six of us. One of you. Even the Ghost can't—"
He never finished the sentence.
Because the lights went out.
All of them. Every light in the penthouse. Every light in the building.
Pitch darkness.
Someone screamed. Gunshots rang out. Muffled sounds of fighting. Bodies hitting the floor.
Mia couldn't see anything. Couldn't hear anything over her heartbeat. Couldn't—
A hand grabbed hers in the darkness. Elias. She knew his grip.
"Run," he whispered in her ear.
He pulled her forward. Through the darkness. Around furniture she couldn't see. Past bodies she could hear but not identify.
Emergency exit. Door. Stairs.
They ran down. Flight after flight. Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But Elias didn't slow down. Just kept pulling her forward.
They burst out into the parking garage. His car sat waiting, engine already running.
How—
Damien. Damien was in the driver's seat.
"Get in!" he shouted.
Elias shoved Mia into the back seat. Slid in beside her. Damien hit the gas before Elias even closed the door.
They shot out of the parking garage. Tires squealing. Into the night.
Mia couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at Elias beside her.
Blood on his hands. Glass in his hair. Eyes still sharp and clear and completely awake.
"Who were they?" she managed.
"Victor's people."
"How did you—the lights—how did you know they'd come—"
Elias looked at her. Really looked. Like he was memorizing her face.
"Because I've been waiting for them," he said quietly. "For five years. I've been waiting for the night they'd finally come for you."
Damien's voice came from the front seat. Tight. Worried. "Boss. We have a problem."
"What now?"
"They didn't just hit the penthouse." Damien's eyes met Elias's in the rearview mirror. "They hit four locations simultaneously. All your properties. All your safe houses."
Elias went very still. "How many?"
"All of them. Every single one." Damien's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Victor knows everything. Every location. Every security measure. Everything."
"That's impossible. Only three people know—" Elias stopped. His face went blank.
"What?" Mia asked. "Only three people know what?"
Elias looked at her. Something in his expression made her blood run cold.
"Only three people know where all my properties are," he said slowly. "Me. Damien. And—"
His phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
All the color drained from his face.
"What is it?" Damien demanded.
Elias turned the phone so they could both see.
A photo. Recent. Very recent.
Jade. Sitting in a chair. Hands zip-tied behind her back. Tape across her mouth. Eyes wide with terror.
And standing behind her, hand on her shoulder, smiling at the camera—
Victor Langton himself.
Below the photo, one line of text:
Your wife for your friend. You have one hour. Come alone, or we kill her slow.