Chapter 3 - The Ghost Hunt
By midnight, the glittering gala had transformed into a crisis management war room.
The VIP guests had long since departed, whispering wildly into their phones, turning the unexpected interruption into the biggest cultural scandal of the decade. Online platforms were already exploding with blurry cell phone clips of the barefoot girl dancing the lost choreography of The Swan’s Requiem.
In his private executive office overlooking the glowing city skyline, Victor Vance paced across the imported Persian rug like a caged tiger. His expensive suit jacket was discarded on a leather chair, his tie loosened, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the air conditioning.
“Find her,” Vance snarled into his desk phone, his voice shaking with a rage he couldn't contain. “I don't care how many security cameras you check, I don't care which alleyways or subway stations you search—find that little rat and bring her to me before sunrise!”
He slammed the receiver down.
Standing near the door was Marcus Reed, the theater’s veteran head of security—a man who knew where all the bodies, literal and figurative, were buried in the institution's long, dark history.
“Mr. Vance,” Marcus said slowly, his voice gravelly and cautious. “The guards checked the perimeter gates within two minutes of her exit. She vanished. It’s as if she dissolved into thin air. But... the cameras picked up something interesting on the back street.”
Vance stopped pacing. “Show me.”
Marcus stepped forward, placing a tablet on the mahogany desk. He pressed play on a grainy night-vision security feed from the alley behind the stage door.
In the video, the barefoot girl in the faded dress was running, her small form darting through the shadows. But she wasn't alone. Just before turning the corner toward the old railway district, an older man—stooped, wearing a weathered trench coat and a woolen cap—stepped out of the fog, grabbed her small hand, and pulled her safely into a waiting, rusted delivery van.
Vance stared at the screen, his face turning the color of ash.
“Julian,” Vance whispered, the name escaping his lips like a curse.
“Julian Vance? Your estranged uncle?” Marcus raised an eyebrow. “I thought he disappeared into the slums after the fire fifteen years ago. Everyone thought he died of alcohol poisoning or exposure.”
“He’s alive,” Victor muttered, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his fingertips turned white. “The old fool survived. And he brought the girl back. After all this time, he brought her straight back to my doorstep.”
“If she knows the choreography,” Marcus pointed out quietly, “that means Celeste Laurent left behind more than just memories. She probably left notes, rehearsal journals, the complete score. If that gets out—if the board finds out you didn’t write the company’s revival pieces yourself... everything we’ve built, everything you stole, crumbles.”
May you like
Victor straightened up, a cold, ruthless glint returning to his eyes. He had spent fifteen years climbing over corpses and burning bridges to become the undisputed monarch of the city's artistic world. He wasn't going to let a dead woman's ghost and a barefoot orphan take it all away.
“We are going to pay my dear uncle a visit,” Vance said, grabbing his coat. “And this time, we finish what we started fifteen years ago.”
