Chapter 13 - The Ghost in the Hamptons
Within twelve hours, Daniel and I were flying private toward New York, cutting through the heavy Atlantic fog toward a desolate airfield in the Hamptons. Daniel had listened to Martha’s revelations with a face carved from granite, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might shatter.
"We don't need to do this ourselves, Clara," Daniel said, reaching across the cabin aisle to take my hand. His thumb traced my knuckles reassuringly. "I can send a legal team, or private investigators. You don't need to look that wretched girl in the eye again."
"Yes, I do," I said, looking out the window at the dark coastline below. "When she poured that drink over my head, she wanted me to feel invisible. She wanted me to crawl away and die in the dark. I need her to see who she woke up."
We landed under the cover of a freezing November drizzle. A black town car picked us up on the tarmac, driving us past sprawling, gated estates whose inhabitants had long since retreated to Manhattan for the winter. We stopped outside a modest, weather-beaten beach house perched precariously on an eroding dune.
The lights inside were flickering.
I stepped out of the vehicle, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. I wore a tailored charcoal wool coat and knee-high leather boots—every inch the billionaire executive, every inch the woman who refused to be broken. Daniel stayed close behind, his presence an immovable fortress.
I walked up the wooden steps and knocked firmly on the peeling paint of the front door. Once. Twice. Three times.
Inside, the sound of scrambling footsteps echoed against the floorboards. A lock clicked. The door swung open just a few inches, held back by a rusted chain.
A pale, hollow-eyed face peered out into the darkness. It took me a full five seconds to recognize Sloane Mercer. Her designer clothes were gone, replaced by an oversized, stained hoodie. Her hair was greasy, unwashed, and pulled back carelessly into a messy bun. The arrogant, untouchable socialite who had laughed while filming my degradation was completely gone.
"Can I help you?" Sloane snapped, her voice raspy and defensive, before she truly focused on my face.
May you like
Her eyes widened in absolute horror. The color drained completely from her skin, leaving her looking like a corpse exhhumed from a shallow grave.
"Hello, Sloane," I said softly, stepping directly into the threshold, pushing the door open until the chain snapped against the wood with a sharp *crack*. "Remember me?"
