Chapter 2 - Ghosts in the Starlight
Three years later. The Drake Hotel, Chicago.
The annual Winter Solstice Gala was the pinnacle of Chicago high society. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceilings, casting a warm glow over tuxedos, silk gowns, and flowing champagne.
Vincent Moretti stood near the grand mezzanine, a glass of double scotch in his hand. He looked older. The sharp lines of his jaw were grimmer, and threads of silver had crept into his dark hair at the temples. He wore a black tuxedo that fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, but his posture was distant, carved out of stone.
Beside him, Sophia wore a emerald-green gown that clung to her curves. She slid her hand through Vincent’s arm, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.
"You're quiet tonight, darling," Sophia murmured, her voice sweet, carefully tuned over three years of patient waiting. "The board loved the announcement about the new medical wing. You should be celebrating."
"I don't feel like celebrating," Vincent said flatly, sipping his scotch without looking at her.
"Vincent..." Sophia sighed gently. "It’s been three years. You have to let yourself live. Anna wouldn't want you to carry this ghost forever."
Mentioning her name made Vincent’s jaw clench. He had buried an empty casket. The fire department had recovered unrecognizable ashes from the rear of the plane, and the dental records had been inconclusive, but the investigation had closed: no survivors remained inside the belly of the craft. He had failed her. He had traded his wife’s life for Sophia’s, and the guilt was an anchor dragging him into the dark every single day.
"Don't speak for my wife, Sophia," Vincent said coldly.
Sophia bit her lip, suppressing a flash of anger behind a look of hurt innocence. "I'm just trying to help you healed—"
She stopped. Vincent wasn't listening.
His eyes were locked on the grand staircase at the far side of the ballroom.
A woman was descending the stairs. She wore a simple, breathless ice-blue silk dress that draped elegantly over an impossibly graceful silhouette. Her dark hair was swept up in a loose twist, exposing a slender, alabaster neck.
Vincent’s glass slipped from his fingers.
Crash.
The scotch glass shattered on the marble floor, liquid splashing over his Italian leather shoes. Nearby guests turned in surprise, but Vincent didn't notice. His lungs forgot how to pull in air.
"Vincent? What's wrong?" Sophia asked, startled.
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
The face. The effortless, quiet posture. The subtle, regal tilt of her chin.
"Anna..." the word tore out of his throat, raw and broken.
"What?" Sophia laughed nervously, looking toward the stairs. Then her face drained of all color. The glass of champagne in her hand trembled violently before falling from her grip, shattering right beside Vincent’s. "No... that's impossible. She died!"
Vincent didn't wait. He shoved through the crowd of executives, politicians, and socialites, blindly plowing a path toward the staircase.
"Anna!" he roared across the room, his voice cutting through the soft string quartet.
The woman didn't stop. She was smiling, speaking softly to an elderly gentleman beside her, stepping gracefully into the heart of the ballroom.
"Anna! Stop!" Vincent’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. He reached out, his hand inches from her bare shoulder. "Anna, please!"
She paused, feeling the shadow of his presence, and turned around slowly.
Her eyes—dark, profound, and utterly cold—met his.
Vincent stopped dead in his tracks, tears burning the corners of his eyes. "You're alive... Oh God, Anna, you're alive..."
Before he could pull her into his arms, a small voice cut through the air.
"Mommy!"
A three-year-old boy with thick dark curls and striking grey-blue eyes ran out from behind a floral arrangement, clutching a small toy wooden airplane, and threw his arms around the woman’s knees.
Anna bent down, her expression instantly softening into a radiant, warm smile. She lifted the boy into her arms, kissing his cheek.
May you like
Vincent looked from the boy’s face—a face that carried the exact jawline and eyes of the Moretti lineage—to the woman standing in front of him. His breath caught in a stranglehold.
"Who are you, sir?" the woman asked calmly, her voice smooth as silk, completely devoid of any recognition. "And why are you yelling at me?"
