POV: Vesper
"Yes, Mr. Tanaka, the digital spirit resonance breakthrough was entirely my work."
I freeze at the kitchen doorway, breakfast tray trembling in my hands. Through the crack, I see Quillan pacing our bedroom, phone pressed to his ear, my research notebook open on his desk.
My notebook. My breakthrough. My three years of secret research.
"The algorithm converts ghost energy into data streams," Quillan continues, reading my notes word for word. "Nobody else has figured this out. Not the Sanctum labs, not the university researchers. Just me."
The tray slips. I catch it before the plates crash, but orange juice sloshes over the rim. My hands won't stop shaking.
Seven years. Seven years I've handed him ideas, whispered solutions when he struggled, written code he claimed as his own. I told myself it was partnership. That marriage meant sharing credit. That eventually, he'd acknowledge me.
I was so stupid.
"The investor meeting is tomorrow?" Quillan laughs. "Perfect. This tech will make Thorne Industries the biggest spirit-tech company in Asia. They'll beg to fund us."
Us. There is no us. There's only him, standing on my shoulders, reaching heights I'll never touch.
"Mommy?"
I jump. Ivory stands behind me in her unicorn pajamas, rubbing sleepy eyes. Five years old and already too observant. She inherited my spirit-sight—I see it when she tracks invisible things across rooms. Things Quillan insists don't exist because he can't see them.
"Good morning, sweetheart." I force brightness into my voice, set the tray on the hallway table. "Hungry?"
"Why are you crying?"
I touch my cheek. Wet. "Just tired, baby. Let's get you breakfast."
In the kitchen, I make Ivory's favorite—chocolate chip pancakes shaped like stars. She chatters about kindergarten, about the "sparkly dog" she saw in the playground that none of her friends could see. A spirit. I nod, encourage her, while my mind screams.
Quillan emerges twenty minutes later, perfect in his designer suit, phone still glued to his ear. He doesn't look at me. I'm furniture. A cooking, cleaning, child-raising appliance.
"Coffee," he mouths, snapping his fingers.
I pour it. Black, two sugars, exactly how he likes it. He takes the mug without acknowledgment and returns to his call.
"Daddy didn't say thank you," Ivory whispers.
"It's fine, honey."
"But you made his breakfast. And his coffee. And you iron his shirts every night." Her little face scrunches with confusion. "Teacher says we should always say thank you."
My throat tightens. "Daddies are busy. It's okay."
"It doesn't seem okay."
Smart girl. Too smart. I kiss her forehead. "Eat your pancakes before they get cold."
Quillan leaves without goodbye. The front door slams. His car roars away—the expensive one I'm not allowed to drive because "you'll scratch it, Vesper."
I clean the kitchen in silence, watching through the window as spirits drift through our garden. Ghosts are everywhere in this world. Most people can't see them. Tamers—people who form contracts with spirits—can see and control them. The Sanctum, the organization that governs all tamers, ranks them by power. S-rank tamers are celebrities. My father is Sanctum elite.
And me? I see everything. Every ghost, every spirit, every flicker of supernatural energy. But I can't form contracts. Can't bond with spirits the normal way. The Sanctum would call me defective. Execute me for knowing too much without having power.
So I hid it. Married Quillan when I was twenty-two, thinking love would protect me. Spent seven years playing the helpless wife while secretly researching something nobody else understood: how to convert spirit energy into technology.
Digital necromancy. Bridging the gap between ghosts and computers.
I discovered it. I developed it. And Quillan is selling it as his own genius.
"No more," I whisper to my reflection in the window. The mousy woman stares back—oversized sweater hiding my figure, thick glasses I don't need anymore (I got surgery two years ago but kept wearing them because Quillan said I looked "trying too hard" without them), hair in a messy bun because he prefers it "natural."
I'm twenty-nine years old and invisible.
Not anymore.
Tonight, I decide. Tonight I'll tell him everything. Show him my real research—the breakthrough code I've hidden in encrypted files. Prove I'm not the stupid housewife he thinks I am. We'll be real partners. Equal. He'll apologize for taking credit. We'll fix this.
We have to. I love him. Don't I?
After dropping Ivory at kindergarten, I return home and go straight to my closet. Behind the frumpy sweaters and mom jeans, I find it—the red dress. The one I bought three years ago for our anniversary. Quillan said it was "too much" and I never wore it again.
Tonight, I'm wearing it.
I spend the afternoon preparing. Quillan's favorite dinner. Candles. I even put on makeup, style my hair down for once. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
Pretty. I look pretty.
Why did I stop trying to look pretty?
Ivory comes home, eyes widening. "Mommy, you're beautiful! Like a princess!"
"Thank you, baby." I twirl for her. "It's a special night."
"Why?"
"Because Mommy is going to be brave."
I tuck Ivory into bed early, reading her three stories until she falls asleep clutching her stuffed rabbit. Downstairs, I light the candles. Set the table. My research files are printed and ready—proof that I'm more than his shadow.
Seven PM. Quillan should be home.
Seven-thirty. Traffic, probably.
Eight PM. Maybe the investor meeting ran late.
Eight-thirty. I check my phone. No messages.
Nine PM. The food is cold. The candles have burned halfway down.
Nine-fifteen. I hear his car. Finally. My heart pounds. I can do this. I'm worth partnership. Worth respect.
Worth love.
The front door opens. I stand, smoothing my dress, practicing my smile.
Quillan walks in.
He's not alone.
My half-sister Sable follows him, laughing at something he said. Her hand rests on his arm. Familiar. Too familiar.
They both stop when they see me. Quillan's eyes widen—surprise, not pleasure. Sable's smile sharpens.
"Vesper." Quillan's voice is flat. "What's all this?"
"I... I made dinner. I wanted to talk to you about something important—"
"We already ate." He loosens his tie. "Sable and I grabbed dinner after the investor meeting. They loved the pitch, by the way. My digital resonance breakthrough sealed the deal."
Your breakthrough.
Sable's eyes travel over my dress, my makeup, my pathetic candles. "Oh, Vesper. You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble. Quillan texted you about dinner, didn't he?"
I check my phone. No texts. She knows there are no texts.
"I must have missed it," I whisper.
"Well, I'm exhausted." Quillan heads for the stairs. "Don't wait up."
Sable lingers, her smile poisonous. "The dress is cute, sis. Very... desperate."
They disappear upstairs together.
Together.
I stand in my cold kitchen, surrounded by unlit dreams and dying candles, and something finally breaks.
The research files slip from my numb hands. Papers scatter across the floor—three years of genius, reduced to trash.
From upstairs, I hear laughter. Quillan's voice, low and warm in a way he hasn't spoken to me in years.
Then I hear something else.
Sable's voice, breathy and pleased: "She has no idea, does she?"
"Vesper?" Quillan laughs. "She can't even figure out the coffee maker. She'll never know."
The bedroom door clicks shut.
My legs won't hold me. I collapse against the counter, bile rising in my throat.
No.
No, no, no.
But I know. Deep down, I've always known.
My hands find my phone. Shaking, I open the tracking app—the one I installed months ago when he started coming home late, when he started smelling like perfume that wasn't mine.
The location history loads.
Quillan's phone has been at the Grandview Hotel every Tuesday and Thursday for the past six months.
The same hotel where Sable's apartment is located.
The candles flicker out one by one.
In the sudden darkness, I see something I've never seen before.
A spirit. But not a normal one.
It materializes in the corner of my kitchen—tall, shadow-dark, with eyes like code scrolling across a screen. It's watching me. Waiting.
And I realize with crystal clarity: this spirit didn't appear by accident.
I summoned it.
With my pain. My rage. My betrayal.
The spirit's mouth moves. Its voice sounds like static and thunder and breaking glass:
"Do you want power, Vesper Calloway? Or do you want to die invisible?"
My answer comes from somewhere deep and dark and done with being small:
"I want power."
The spirit smiles.
And the world shifts.