Damien Stirling didn't believe in ghosts.
But some nights, when the house was too quiet, and the scent of jasmine lingered faintly in his memory, he wondered if she was still there. Watching him.
He leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window of his Mayfair apartment, staring out at the London skyline. The city glittered below, oblivious to his stillness. His scotch glass sat untouched on the table behind him.
It had been seven months since her death. Seven months since he'd received the news that Rameena—his rival's wife, the only woman who had ever stirred something real in him—was gone.
Poisoning, they'd said. A "rare illness" that took her too soon.
He'd known Michael Sterling for years. Known the man's cruelty, his charming masks. So when the news broke, Damien hadn't believed the official story for a second.
But he hadn't had proof.
And now she was in the ground, her light snuffed out.
---
His father's voice echoed in his head from their last dinner.
"You've mourned long enough, Damien. It's time to think strategically again. The board is watching. The media is watching. Sterling Holdings is consolidating, and we can't afford to look weak."
Damien had only swirled his wine, silent.
His father pressed on, relentless. "You're thirty-three. You need an heir, and you need a wife who can hold her own. I've arranged meetings—just conversations for now."
Damien hadn't argued. What would've been the point?
But deep down, a bitter laugh curled in his chest. Love? Family? All illusions. He had seen what "love" did to people. He had loved once—in his own quiet, forbidden way. And look where it left him.
---
He pushed away from the window and grabbed his coat. He needed air. Needed to drown out the memories of Rameena's laughter, her fire, her stubbornness.
But as he walked through the silent streets of Mayfair, he couldn't shake the image of her eyes—defiant even in his memories.
If there were such a thing as ghosts, Damien thought grimly, then she was the kind that didn't rest.
---
Across the city, Ruth was balancing two steaming trays of food in the back of a bustling diner.
"Order up! Table five!" the cook barked.
"On it," Ruth said automatically. But her mind was miles away.
She'd spent the morning scribbling plans in her notebook, trying to figure out how to take her first step. She couldn't stay in this cycle of menial jobs forever.
She remembered Rameena's ruthless efficiency—how she could walk into a boardroom of sneering old men and walk out with their signatures on her contracts.
Now she needed to channel that same woman in a world that saw her as just Ruth Whitmore, broke college girl.
Step one: find an opening.
Step two: secure resources.
Step three: begin building her empire.
Simple on paper. Impossible in practice.
---
After her shift, Ruth tugged her hoodie tight and headed to campus. A business networking event was being held in one of the auditoriums, and while she wasn't officially invited, she could slip in as a student observer.
She sat in the back, watching young entrepreneurs pitch ideas to a panel of local investors. It wasn't Rameena's world of multi-billion-pound mergers and cutthroat takeovers, but it was a start.
Her eyes narrowed as she listened to one man stumble through a pitch about sustainable clothing. His numbers were off. His target audience too broad.
Ruth's lips twitched.
I could've sold that in five minutes.
---
Meanwhile, Mirabel Carter leaned against a lamppost outside the diner where Ruth worked. Her fur-lined coat shielded her from the cold, but her expression was troubled.
She'd been watching Ruth more closely these days. Her best friend was… different.
It wasn't just the long hours or the exhaustion in her eyes. It was the way she looked at people now—like she was studying them, calculating their worth.
Mirabel didn't know what had changed after Ruth's accident, but it unsettled her.
When Ruth had finally walked out of the diner, Mirabel fell into step beside her.
"Hey. You're working yourself into the grave, you know."
"I'll be fine." Ruth's tone was polite but distant, like her mind was elsewhere.
Mirabel frowned. "Fine isn't good enough. I know you're struggling. Just let me help—"
"No." Ruth stopped walking, her gaze steady. "I can't rely on anyone anymore. Not even you."
The sharpness in her tone made Mirabel flinch.
Ruth seemed to notice and softened slightly. "I'm sorry. I just… need to do this my way."
Mirabel swallowed her worry and nodded. But something about Ruth's calm intensity made her uneasy.
---
That night, in her tiny apartment, Ruth stared at her notebook again.
Step one. Step two. Step three.
The words stared back like a challenge.
She could still feel Rameena's rage simmering beneath her skin.
Michael and Elliot thought they had won.
But they had no idea what was coming.
---
"I'll take everything," she whispered into the darkness. "And when I'm done, they'll kneel."