Chapter 2: THE GHOST
Adrian's POV
Adrian stands by the window in the conference room.
The meeting continues behind him, with voices, presentations, and the rustle of papers, but his eyes are fixed on the world outside. Manhattan spreads below him like a toy city. Tiny cars crawl along streets that look like veins. Tiny people rush to places that don't matter.
He barely slept last night. Again.
The pills help sometimes. Last night, they didn't. He lay in the dark for hours, staring at the ceiling, seeing her face every time he closed his eyes.
Selena.
He shakes the thought away. Not now. Never again.
Behind him, the presentation ends. A young man's voice falters into silence.
Adrian doesn't turn around. He keeps staring at the tiny cars, the tiny people, the tiny world that has no idea he's watching.
Everyone in the room waits.
They keep their eyes locked on the one who decides. The one who approves or destroys. No one breathes too loudly. No one moves too fast.
Harrison, his assistant, stands and clears his throat.
"Mr. Sinclair."
Adrian doesn't respond.
Harrison tries again. Softer this time. "Sir. The presentation is complete."
Slowly, Adrian turns.
The room stiffens. Postures straighten. Eyes drop to the table. No one wants to meet his gaze. No one dares.
Some of the women sneak glances. He feels their eyes on him, wondering, imagining, thinking about what he'd look like without his suit. He's used to it. He ignores it.
He walks to his seat. Picks up the file. Open it.
Silence.
He reads. Page by page. Expression unreadable.
The room holds its breath.
He nods once. Twice. A small movement, but everyone catches it. Eyes dart around the table. Hope flickers.
He approves. He actually approves.
Then Adrian flings the file into the air.
Papers scatter everywhere. Floating. Falling. Landing on the table like dead leaves.
Fear floods the room.
Adrian's voice is calm. Quiet. Dangerous.
"Whose idea was this?"
No one answers. No one breathes.
Their eyes move as one. Toward the young man at the end of the table. Fresh out of business school. Eager. Hopeful. Now pale as death.
Adrian looks at him.
The young man opens his mouth. Close it. Open it again. Words try to come out, but nothing arrives. His lips move. His throat works. Silence.
"This," Adrian says, holding up one of the papers, "is what you brought me? After seven days?"
"I—we—the team thought—"
"You thought wrong."
Adrian drops the paper. It flutters to the floor.
"You're out."
The young man blinks. "Sir?"
"Out of this project. Out of every project that involves me. Effective immediately."
The room goes cold.
Eyes widened. Mouths part. No one speaks. No one dares.
The young man looks around the table for help. For someone to defend him. For anyone to say something.
No one meets his eyes.
He stands slowly. His hands shake as he gathers his things. His face is the color of ash. He walks to the door. Open it. Disappears.
Silence stretches.
Then an older man clears his throat. Mr. Armstrong. Senior board member. He owns a significant share of the company. He's used to being respected. Used to being heard.
"That was unnecessary."
Adrian turns to him. Slowly. Deliberately.
Mr. Armstrong continues. "The boy's father is one of our biggest shareholders. Kicking his son off every project? It's unfair. It's—"
Adrian looks at him. From his gray hair to his expensive tie to his polished shoes. Then back to his face.
A small smile plays at Adrian's lips.
"You can replace him if you'd like."
Mr. Armstrong's mouth opens. Closes. He didn't expect that.
"Take his place," Adrian continues. "Lead the project yourself. Present the next idea. Let's see what you come up with."
The room holds its breath.
Mr. Armstrong says nothing.
Adrian waits. One second. Two. Three.
"Does anyone else have a suggestion?"
No one moves. No one speaks. Every pair of eyes is fixed on the table.
Adrian nods slowly.
"I'll be back in two hours." He picks up his jacket. "Have something ready."
Two hours. Panic flickers across faces. They had seven days and produced nothing. Two hours is impossible.
"We're going for an international showcase," Adrian says at the door. "Not a local fair. Not a school project. International. Act like it."
He walks out.
Harrison follows immediately, tablet in hand, already scrolling through the schedule.
"You have a meeting with the oil consortium at eleven."
They walk down the hallway. Employees press against the walls to let them pass. Some whisper. Most just stare. Adrian doesn't notice.
"Video call with Tokyo at one." Harrison walks faster to keep up. "Contract review with legal at three. Dinner with Isabella at seven."
Adrian stops walking.
Harrison stops too.
"Cancel it."
Harrison hesitates. "Sir, your mother arranged that dinner personally. She's been planning it for—"
"Cancel it."
They stand in front of the elevator. Harrison taps his tablet, searching for something, anything, to change his mind.
"The restaurant is booked. Isabella confirmed this morning. Your mother called three times to make sure—"
"Harrison."
Harrison looks up.
Adrian's face is unreadable. "Cancel. It."
The elevator doors open. Adrian steps inside. Harrison follows.
The doors close. They descend in silence.
After a moment, Adrian speaks.
"How's the construction site in the Bronx coming along?"
Harrison looks at him. A small smile crosses his face. He understands.
"They're making progress. The foundation is complete. You haven't inspected it in person yet."
"No. I haven't."
"It might be a good time to check."
Adrian nods. Just once.
The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open.
"The Bronx," Adrian says. "By six."
Harrison smiles. "Right away, sir."
The construction site is loud. Men shout. Machines rumble. Dust fills the air.
Adrian steps out of the car. Harrison follows, tablet still in hand.
The head engineer spots them immediately and hurries over, helmet in hand, face covered in sweat and desperation.
"Mr. Sinclair! We weren't expecting—"
"Show me the foundation."
"Of course, right this way—"
Adrian walks. The engineer talks. Something about timelines, about budgets, about challenges. Adrian listens with half his mind.
Then he stops.
A woman. Standing near the edge of the site. Talking to a foreman. Her back is to him. She's wearing a cap, baggy clothes, nothing special.
But something about her…
The foreman shakes his head. Points toward the exit. She's being turned away. Looking for work, probably. Looking for something.
She looks desperate.
Adrian should look away. Should focus on the foundation, on the meeting, on anything else.
But he doesn't.
She turns. Just slightly. Her profile catches the light.
And Adrian's heart stops.
Selena.
No. Impossible.
She walks away. Her cap hides her face. He can't see her clearly. But the shape of her—the way she moves—it's her. It's exactly her.
Then she trips.
Her foot catches on something. She stumbles forward, arms flailing, and her cap flies off.
She catches herself. Doesn't fall. But for one second, her face is turned toward him.
Full view.
Full sunlight.
Full recognition.
Adrian can't breathe.
It's her. It's Selena's face. Selena's eyes. Selena's everything.
She looks around quickly, embarrassed, grabs her cap, and shoves it back on her head. Then she's gone. Disappeared into the chaos of the site.
Adrian stands frozen.
"Mr. Sinclair?" The engineer's voice is distant. "Are you alright?"
Adrian blinks.
He looked where she was. Empty space. Dust. Noise. No woman. No ghosts. Nothing.
"Mr. Sinclair?"
"Fine." His voice is rough. "I'm fine."
He turns back to the engineer. Forces himself to focus. Forces himself to breathe.
But in his mind, he's still seeing her face.
Selena. Alive. Here. Impossible.
He spends another hour at the site. Look at the foundation. Nods at the right moments. Say the right things.
But he's not there.
He's somewhere else. Five years ago. Holding her hand. Watching her die.
And now, somehow, watching her walk away.
On the drive back to Manhattan, he closes his eyes. Try to push it away. Tries to convince himself it was nothing. Just a long night. Just a lack of sleep. Just grief playing tricks.
But he knows what he saw.
And he doesn't understand.
The phone rings. Harrison glances at the caller ID. Look in the rearview mirror.
"It's Isabella, sir."
Adrian doesn't open his eyes.
"Let it ring."
Harrison does.
The phone stops. Then it starts again.
And somewhere behind them, in the Bronx, a girl with a dead woman's face walks toward a future neither of them can see coming.
Adrian stares out the window at the Bronx fading behind him. Somewhere back there, a ghost walks. A ghost wit
h a stranger's face. A ghost who doesn't know she's already dead.
He doesn't know her name. Doesn't know where she's going. Doesn't know that in less than an hour, she'll step into the path of his car.
He doesn't know anything yet.
But he will soon find out what the future holds for them.