Chapter 21 - The Ghost from the Archive
The screen of Patrick’s phone remained illuminated against the polished granite of the kitchen island, the cold blue glow casting a sharp shadow over the stainless-steel surface. *We found out who bought the house, Patrick. And she's coming to New York.*
Chloe burst into laughter from the living room, popping the cork of the prosecco bottle with a loud *pop* that sent foam spraying across the hardwood. "Glasses, boss! We need glasses right now, or I'm drinking straight from the bottle!"
Patrick forced his breathing to steady, his thumb swiping upward to clear the notification into the digital abyss. He couldn't afford to let his mind wander back to Maplewood Drive—not now, not when he had finally built an impenetrable fortress of success, financial security, and genuine companionship. He forced a smile, grabbed a stack of crystal flutes from the overhead cabinet, and walked back into the living room, stepping over the threshold of his new reality.
Yet, beneath the warmth of the sparkling wine and the bright Manhattan morning light, a low hum of dread persisted in the back of his mind. *Who bought the house?* And more importantly, *who* was coming to New York? In the seven years since he had packed his single suitcase and walked out of his childhood home, he had severed every single tie. His mother, Eleanor, had made it abundantly clear that Patrick was nothing more than an investment gone wrong—a utility used to pay off Julia’s private school tuition and early car payments before being discarded like a worn-out calculator.
By Monday morning, the lingering chill of the text message had been temporarily buried beneath an avalanche of corporate restructuring audits and high-stakes tax compliance reports at Vanguard & Sterling. Patrick sat in his corner office on the forty-second floor, the panoramic view of the Hudson River spread out beneath him like a living spreadsheet.
"Mr. Vance," his executive assistant, Evelyn, said over the intercom, her voice crisp and professional. "You have a visitor in the main lobby. She insists it’s a personal matter regarding a property title transfer from New Jersey."
Patrick’s fingers paused over his mechanical keyboard. "Did she give a name?"
"She refused to provide one to security," Evelyn replied, hesitation clipping her words. "She said you’d know her the moment she stepped out of the elevator. And... Mr. Vance? She's currently causing quite a scene at the security desk because they won't let her past the turnstiles without an appointment."
Patrick leaned back in his ergonomic leather chair, the leather creaking softly in the quiet room. A cold certainty washed over him, replacing the anxiety with a sharp, calculated focus. He stood up, buttoned the jacket of his tailored charcoal suit, and walked out of his office, his leather-soled shoes clicking with absolute authority against the polished concrete floors of the executive suite.
When he reached the grand marble lobby downstairs, the commotion was already drawing the curious glances of junior analysts and passing clients. Standing in the center of the pristine, minimalist foyer was a woman clutching an oversized, faux-leather handbag, her face flushed with indignation as a pair of security guards politely but firmly blocked her path.
It wasn't Eleanor. It wasn't Julia.
It was Brenda Vance—his estranged paternal aunt, a woman who hadn't spoken to Patrick since he was twelve years old, yet possessed the exact same venomous tongue and unwavering sense of entitlement that had poisoned the entire Maplewood household.
"I am family!" Brenda shrieked, pointing a manicured, albeit chipped, fingernail at the head of security. "Do you have any idea who I am? My nephew runs this entire floor—well, he thinks he does! I demand you let me through right now before I have you all fired!"
Patrick stopped ten paces away, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched her for a moment, observing the desperate franticness in her eyes, the way she clutched her handbag like a shield against the intimidating wealth of Manhattan.
"Brenda," Patrick said, his voice dropping into a register so cold and devoid of emotion that the security guards immediately stepped aside.
May you like
Aunt Brenda snapped her head around, her eyes locking onto his tall, commanding figure. For a split second, something resembling fear flickered across her face, quickly replaced by a triumphant, ugly smirk. "Patrick. Look at you. Playing the big executive in your fancy glass tower while your family is starving."
"Security," Patrick said evenly, not breaking eye contact with his aunt. "Escort this woman out of the building. And if she attempts to re-enter, call the NYPD for trespassing."
