If eyes haunt you in dreams. His? They came back in flesh.
The man stood on the stage as if it were his kingdom, a king among serfs. His chin was raised, his shoulders straight, his body relaxed yet taut, every movement hinting at the potential for attack or retreat, depending on the game.
Before he even spoke, all eyes were fixed on him.
He wore a tailored black suit, sharp and immaculate.
His posture was impeccable; every gesture seemed honed by years of power and peril.
But most of all, it was his eyes.
Sharp.
Dark.
Powerful.
And fixed on Celeste.
He didn't smile at first, but his eyes… those damn eyes were smiling.
Celeste froze.
It was as if a slap of old memory had struck her. His eyes alone were enough.
To most, the man was a charismatic enigma. Expensively dressed, with an impeccable reputation, and a presence that commanded attention. You felt it the moment he entered the room, and you couldn't look away.
But to Celeste?
He was a nightmare made flesh.
The ghost of her past.
And the very embodiment of guilt.
My God, it can't be him…
She swallowed.
Her mouth was dry despite the chilled champagne she'd just had. Her heart pounded, not from excitement, but from fear.
From guilt.
From trauma.
Five years.
Five years since she'd sealed the chasm of her past.
Since she'd buried the coffin.
From the fire.
From the explosion.
From the silence after the storm.
But now, the ghost had returned, alive and… smiling.
Around her, the guests were engrossed in the festivities, the program flowing seamlessly.
But for Celeste, the world had stopped.
And because she was accustomed to such scenes, to crises, boardroom wars, media firestorms—she had to act.
She quickly glanced at Arianna, her assistant, often sharper than she was.
Arianna was staring at the man, phone in hand, discreetly recording him.
Celeste tapped her shoulder, a sharp tap, brimming with urgency.
"Get me his full name. Background. Everything. I don't care what it costs. I want to know who the hell he really is," Celeste commanded sharply.
Arianna paused. "Copy, ma'am."
She immediately opened her phone and began typing.
But even Arianna seemed to sense something was off. Silent. No longer smiling.
And Celeste felt it. Her energy infected people like wildfire.
Celeste took a step forward.
Not to approach.
But to confront the ghost.
And each step felt like thorns sinking into her soles.
She moved through the crowd like a queen, elegant, composed, but inside? She was shaking.
How? How did he survive? If it wasn't him... why do I recognize every flicker of his eyes…
She brushed past a waiter, gently but impatiently.
She didn't stop for smiles, handshakes, or flirtatious hellos.
She didn't look back.
Her only direction: the stage.
No turning back.
No escape.
One step.
Two.
Three.
And as she approached, the man's gaze followed her, unwavering.
He didn't look away.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't hide.
Like a sin long concealed… now risen to collect its due.
Then he smiled, as if he remembered everything.
It was a smile steeped in memory, dripping with vengeance.
The smile of a ghost resurrected.
And before she could fully reach him, he winked.
One gesture.
Simple.
Silent.
But to Celeste?
Like a knife plunged into an old wound.
Five years ago, I buried a man with that face.
I watched the fire consume him.
I saw the coffin lowered.
And yet here he is… breathing, walking, smiling—like he knows every lie I told just to survive.
Reaching the foot of the stage, she could no longer hear.
The applause—gone.
The jazz music—blurred.
The clinking glasses—a hollow echo.
Everything was gone.
Nothing remained but the pounding of her own heart.
She gripped her clutch tightly.
Cold metal.
Sharp edges.
Only this was real.
Someone approached. The event coordinator.
"Ma'am, are you alright?"
But she didn't hear him.
It was just a voice in the wind.
Because her entire world—was focused on one being.
And that man… descended from the stage.
Silently.
Deadly.
Dangerously.
No one else existed.
He didn't rush.
He didn't hide.
He didn't deviate.
He approached her as if each step were part of a sentence.
And between them… there was no other world.
No other people.
No time.
No voice.
Only the unfolding of a secret she had long buried in the darkness of memory.
He stopped before her.
An inch separated them.
Enough to smell his scent.
Enough to fall apart.
And finally, he spoke.
Slowly. Lowly. Mockingly.
Like a lie that never slept.
"Missed me?" he said, voice like silk dipped in poison.
Every dance ends in roses. This one ends in blood.
Later, the night deepened. The chandeliers above cast shifting shadows, playing across the faces of the guests bathed in light, like characters on a stage, each oblivious to the brewing storm.
In a corner, the orchestra—five members—played softly on violins, cello, and bandoneon. The tense chords seemed to dance in the air, each note a sob in the ballroom's darkness, piercing the night.
Celeste, though amidst lively conversation, held herself with an air of urgency, her chest tight, her eyes fixed on the VIP lounge door.
She needed to escape.
A promise to herself, after that horrific night five years ago.
She heard the faint click of expensive leather shoes—not just the sound of footsteps, but the sound of time walking back toward Celeste.
Each step, slicing through the air.
Cold.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
As if the ghosts of the past were tightening their grip around her neck.
The orchestra faltered.
The violins seemed to stutter.
The notes scattered in the air like shattered memories.
Laughter faded.
Darkness descended.
Even though the ballroom was brightly lit, it was as if a curtain had fallen from the heavens.
Celeste's world shrank, until only the sound of her own heartbeat remained—and the man approaching.
"Mrs. Carreon?" A voice—low, almost a whisper, seductive yet laced with poison.
She flinched.
And before she could move,
he took her wrist.
Hot.
Firm.
Burning.
Their eyes met.
Fire in his gaze.
Not just anger.
Not just hatred.
But a kind of malice forged in hell.
She knew it.
Those weren't the eyes of a stranger.
Those were the eyes of the man she once loved… and sacrificed.
Celeste blinked.
She shook her head, trying to break the moment, but everything remained—the noise, the heat, the gaze.
She looked at his hand gripping her wrist—and again, she looked up at his face.
And there she saw the full form of her nightmare—S. V. Del Fierro.
Alive.
More real than the nightmare.
And he didn't let go of Celeste's hand.
Celeste was tense and barely breathing. "Who the hell are you?"
The man stood before her, his gaze radiating imminent danger.
Celeste felt drained by his intense stare.
"You look better than the last time I saw you. But I prefer red on your hands, not your dress."
The man gently touched Celeste's shoulder, but she felt his fingers digging slightly, as if capable of crushing her muscles.
Celeste trembled, like a sudden bolt of lightning striking her body.
She heard the orchestra music soar again.
And before she could pull away, the man pulled her back to the center of the dance floor.
This wasn't a dance of love.
This was a dance of revenge.
In the swirl of lights and gowns, they were together.
Celeste, the queen of corporate boardrooms.
And Del Fierro, the king of her nightmares.
Celeste tried to keep the rhythm, but the tango was slippery, violent, seductive, as if reopening a wound.
With each sway of their bodies, the night of the fire returned.
The heat.
The ashes.
The man who was never supposed to be seen again.
"You're supposed to be—" Celeste's voice cracked, struggling for breath as she stared at the man who seemed to have risen from her nightmare.
She couldn't finish.
The words caught in her throat, choked by the memory of the night of the fire, the explosion, the last scream she heard.
He just looked at her.
Smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Cold.
His expression was like shattered ice "...Dead?"
His eyebrow arched slightly, the smile deepening, not happy, but dangerous.
He tilted his head slightly, as if amused, but without sound.
"That's a heavy word to throw around so casually, Mrs. Carreon."
Why does he speak like this? Like Dominic…?
Celeste's chest tightened.
That name.
That exact tone.
That exact smirk.
No one should know that except him.
Her voice cracked. "Who are you?" she asked again.
Instead of answering, the man stared at her—slowly, sharply, as if reading the movements of her soul.
At the corner of his mouth was a scar, small, almost invisible, but enough to remind her of their last night.
And instead of answering her, Celeste's world shook further at his whispered words.
"It's strange, isn't it? Sometimes… what we bury, doesn't stay buried."
No direct answer.
But enough to shake Celeste's entire system.
"You should be careful," he added in a cold voice, soft yet sharp. "The dead have a way of watching the living. Especially the liars."
Celeste's breath hitched.
It was as if her own conscience had slapped her. She wanted to scream. To ask him, to blurt out the name she couldn't say.
But she couldn't. Because deep down, she already knew.
The memories returned:
The smell of gasoline.
The burning wood.
The smoke clouding her face.
And her last glimpse of a familiar face, cold and lifeless.
When Celeste tried to pull away her hand, the man wouldn't let her. He tightened his grip on her.
Del Fierro silently pulled her back.
The orchestra seemed to stop breathing.
The lights changed—from golden to pale, like an old film of a memory.
They danced.
And with each step, each turn, it was as if something was being stripped away from Celeste's armor.
The five years she had hidden behind strong walls were eroding.
S. V. Del Fierro leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, sending shivers down her spine.
"You dance like someone running from a ghost. And still leading with your right."
Celeste's heart felt like it would burst. Her throat was dry.
She couldn't speak.
Every movement of the man was familiar, as if she had danced this before.
In the rain
Under candlelight.
And now, in a ballroom full of lies, she was reliving the hell she had tried to forget.