The file arrived at dawn, slipped beneath the wrought-iron gates of Rosemoor in an unmarked envelope sealed with wax. A raven pressed into crimson.
Vivienne opened it with her petite finger trembling seriously.
Inside were two items:
— A single black-and-white photograph, blurred and grainy.
— A handwritten note in a looping script: You're getting close. But ghosts don't bleed.
The woman in the photo wore a dark veil and stepped into a church through the back, face obscured. But the timestamp was clear—last month. Paris.
La Dame Fantôme was real.
And still moving.
Vivienne stared at the image, memorizing every shadow. "We go to Paris."
Damien leaned over her shoulder. "If this is a trap—"
"Then we spring it," she said. "I won't run from phantoms anymore."
---
Three days later, they arrived at Église Saint-Hilaire, an abandoned Gothic church on the outskirts of Paris, long since deconsecrated, its stained glass cracked and bleeding light in fractured hues.
Damien led the way, his pistol tucked beneath his coat. The walls were covered in ivy and silence, and the pews looked like teeth in a yawning mouth.
Vivienne found the candlelit alcove near the altar exactly as described in the file.
And then she heard it—a footstep behind her.
She turned.
A woman stepped out from the shadows.
Tall. Cloaked in black. Face veiled. But the voice—oh, the voice— it was unmistakable.
"Vivienne Vale."
Vivienne's heart skipped.
"You know me," she said.
"I knew your mother."
The woman stepped closer. "Amelia was fire and silk. She trusted the wrong people. But not all of us betrayed her."
"Then who are you?"
The veil came down slowly, every inch it took, made each of Vivienne's heart beat as the moment was something she anticipated for.
Vivienne gasped.
She was older now—worn by time and shadows—but the resemblance was undeniable.
"Margot?" Vivienne whispered.
Her cousin smiled faintly. "Not quite."
Damien stepped forward, eyes narrow. "What is this?"
"I left this life once," Margot—La Dame Fantôme—said. "But it followed me. Valentin saved me from the ruins of my father's debt. In exchange, I became his ghost."
"And now?" Vivienne asked.
"Now I want out."
Vivienne's voice dropped. "Why tell me?"
"Because your mother was going to burn the whole thing down. And I couldn't help her. I owe her. And you."
She handed Vivienne a small velvet pouch.
Inside: a USB drive. Gold-plated. Engraved with the Orséa insignia.
"This is every account," Margot said. "Every bribe. Every body. It will bring him down."
Damien took it carefully. "Why now?"
"Because I know how it ends," she said, eyes glassy. "And I'd rather die a traitor than live a shadow."
Vivienne stepped forward and took her hand. "Then let's end it together."
Margot smiled, brittle and tired.
"No, cousin. My part ends here. Yours is just beginning."
Then she turned and vanished into the ruined pews, becoming mist once more.
Vivienne stared at the empty altar.
A ghost had saved her.
Now it was her turn to bury the dead.