The Ghost in the Garage
“Why would this happen?”
The question wasn't spoken aloud. It was a silent scream that echoed inside the confined, leather-wrapped space of the car.
Ethan sat in the back seat of his black Maybach. The car was parked in his private garage at the base of the Lucent Pinnacle building. It was a cavernous, concrete space, lit by harsh fluorescent strips that buzzed with a low, irritating hum. Usually, this place represents power. It was where the elite parked their machines. But tonight, it felt like a tomb.
His driver, a man who had served the Malcovich family for ten years, had sensed the darkness radiating from his boss. He had quietly stepped out five minutes ago, murmuring something about checking the tires, leaving Ethan alone in the silence.
Ethan was grateful for the solitude. He didn't think he could hold the mask of the composed billionaire for one second longer.
His hands were shaking. It was a subtle tremor, barely visible, but he felt it in his bones. In his right hand, he held the piece of paper he had stolen from Aria’s purse.
It was a photograph.
He brought it closer to his face, straining his eyes in the dim light of the car's interior. It was torn in half. The jagged white edge ran right down the middle, separating the subject from whatever used to be on the other side.
But the subject was intact.
It was a little girl. She was sitting on a swing set, her legs kicking out toward the camera, her head thrown back in a laugh that seemed to echo through time. She had wild, dark hair and eyes that were bright, intelligent, and fiercely blue.
Ethan ran his thumb over the glossy face of the child.
"Aria," he whispered.
He was speaking to the child.
He remembered this day. He remembered it like it was yesterday, even though almost twenty years had passed. It was his tenth birthday. This photo was taken in the garden of the Old Estate. He had been pushing her on the swing. They had been inseparable. She was the only person in the world who didn't care about his father's behaviour. She was the only one who didn't care about his father's money, even though her own father is richer. She just liked him because he made her laugh.
He closed his eyes, and the memory washed over him, painful and sharp.
He remembered the smell of smoke. He remembered being in Zurich, in his school his father had sent him to. He remembered the phone call. The professor had called him into the office. His face was grave.
“There was a fire, Ethan. An accident. The Delaney family… they didn't make it.”
He remembered the feeling of the floor dropping out from under him. He had lost his best friend. He had lost the only light in his childhood. He had mourned her. He had buried her in his heart and built a wall around the grief so he could survive being a Malcovich.
Ethan opened his eyes, staring at the torn photo again.
Why did Norah have this?
It didn't make sense. Norah was a stranger. She came from nowhere. She had a resume, a history, a life that had nothing to do with the Delaneys.
So why was this picture, this private, stolen memory that belonged to his past, hidden in the secret pocket of her handbag?
His mind raced, trying to connect the dots, but every connection brought a fresh wave of pain.
Did she steal it? Was she obsessed with him? Did she find it in his study and take it as a souvenir?
No. That didn't fit. The files. The Manila folder in her closet. Delaney Corporation & Tech.
She wasn't just a thief. She was researching. She was digging.
"How did they connect?" Ethan asked the empty car.
Why would Norah, a woman who melted in his arms, a woman who whispered that she wanted to marry him and have his children, carry around the financial records of a dead man and the photo of a dead girl?
A terrible thought began to form in the back of his mind. A thought so cold that it made him shiver.
Was she using the memory? Was she using the tragedy of the Delaney family to get to his father? Was she a corporate spy hired by a rival to dig up old dirt?
"Why would she want to bring my father down?"
Ethan knew his father wasn't a saint. Norman Malcovich was a ruthless shark. He had crushed competitors. He had destroyed lives in the boardroom. But Norah… she had smiled at Norman. She had shaken his hand. She had played the part of the dutiful future daughter-in-law.
Was it all a lie?
Every smile? Every kiss? Every touch?
The night at the Old Estate. The way she looked at him by the fireplace. The way she cried when he asked about the wedding.
Ethan felt a lump form in his throat. It was a hard, painful knot of emotion.
"She cried," he whispered. "She looked at me and she cried."
He had thought she was crying from happiness. He had thought she was overwhelmed by his love.
But what if she was crying from guilt? What if she was crying because she knew she was about to destroy him?
Tears Ethan was holding back flow down freely.
He couldn't stop them. He was a grown man, a billionaire, a figure of power, but in the safety of his car, he broke. He leaned his head back against the seat, letting the hot tears track down his cheeks.
It hurt. It hurt physically. His chest ached as if someone had reached inside and squeezed his heart.
He really loved Aria so much. He loved Norah. He loved the woman who challenged him. He loved the woman who made him laugh. He had opened his soul to her. He had given her the keys to his life, his home, his heart.
But does it mean Aria never loved him like she claimed?
If she was a spy, then everything was a calculation. The sex was a tool. The affection was a strategy. The wedding plans were just a way to keep him blind.
"I am a fool," Ethan groaned, wiping his face with his hand. "I am a blind, stupid fool."
He looked at the photo again. The little girl’s smile seemed to mock him now.
You forgot me, the photo seemed to say. You let them kill me, and now you are sleeping with the enemy.
He slammed his fist against the leather armrest.
"Who are you!" he shouted at the silence.
He needed answers. He needed to go back to her apartment. He needed to wake her up and shake the truth out of her. He needed to know if any part of it was real.
The sudden buzzing of his phone on the console made him jump. It was a loud, intrusive sound in the quiet garage.
He stared at the screen. He half-expected it to be her. He expected to see My Love flashing on the screen, calling to tell him she had sent the email, calling to tell him she loved him.
But it wasn't her.
Miriam.
Ethan stared at the name. He felt a surge of irritation. Miriam. The pest. The woman who had caused a scene at the gala. The woman he had rejected a thousand times. He didn't have the energy for her. He didn't have the patience for her petty social games.
He reached out to decline the call.
But his finger hovered over the button.
Miriam had been acting strange lately. Desperate. She had been shouting about Norah. She had been trying to warn him, in her own twisted, jealous way.
Ethan took a deep breath. He swiped the green button. He put the phone to his ear, but he didn't speak. He just waited.
"Ethan?" Miriam’s voice came through the speaker. It sounded different. It wasn't the shrill, demanding voice he was used to. It was quiet. Calm. Almost sad.
Ethan picked immediately as he said to Miriam, "What is it, Miriam? I am not in the mood."
"I know," Miriam said softly. "I know you are busy. I know you are angry with me."
She took a breath.
"Sorry for what happened at the gala night."
Ethan blinked. He hadn't expected that. Miriam never apologized. Miriam Dubois believed the world owed her an apology, not the other way around.
"I was out of line," Miriam continued. "My mother... she was out of line. We embarrassed you. And for that, I am truly sorry."
"It's fine," Ethan said, his voice flat. He just wanted to get off the phone. "Is that all?"
"No," Miriam said. "That's not all."
There was a pause. A heavy silence on the line.
"I'm sorry Ethan, Norah wasn't who you think she is."
Ethan went still. His hand tightened on the phone. He looked down at the torn photo on his lap.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"I mean..." Miriam hesitated. She sounded like she was choosing her words carefully, trying not to sound like the jealous ex-girlfriend, but like a concerned friend. "I did some digging. After the gala... after everything... I just couldn't understand where she came from. So I hired some people. I looked into it."
Ethan nodded as if Miriam was there. He didn't stop her. He needed to hear it. He needed someone else to say the words he was too afraid to think.
As Miriam continued, "I just did my research and found out that she's been a spy all this while."
Ethan closed his eyes. The word hung in the air. Spy.
It confirmed everything. The files. The secrecy. The lies.
But Ethan couldn't say a thing because he had seen from the little evidence that Aria was just a spy as he said okay.
"Okay," he said. It was a hollow sound. A surrender.
Miriam paused. She had expected him to fight her. She had expected him to yell, to defend Norah, to tell Miriam she was crazy. But his acceptance... his quiet resignation... it told her she was right. And it told her he already suspected.
But Miriam wasn't done. She had one more card to play. The ace. The name Vanessa had given her. The name that changed the game from corporate espionage to a blood feud.
"Ethan," Miriam said, her voice trembling slightly. "It's worse than just a spy. It's personal."
"What do you mean personal?" Ethan asked, opening his eyes.
"Her name isn't Norah," Miriam said. "It never was."
She took a deep breath.
"Ethan her name is Aria Delaney, Nathan Delaney's daughter."
The world stopped.
The humming of the garage lights faded away. The beat of his own heart stopped. The air in the car vanished.
Aria Delaney.
Hearing this Ethan sat up immediately. He moved so fast his head hit the roof of the car, but he didn't feel the pain.
He checked his phone screen to know if it was real. He looked at the caller ID, making sure he wasn't hallucinating. Making sure he wasn't dreaming.
"Say that again," Ethan demanded, his voice cracking.
"Aria Delaney," Miriam repeated. "Nathan’s daughter. The girl who was supposed to have died in the fire twenty years ago. She didn't die, Ethan. She survived. She changed her face, she changed her name, and she came back."
But definitely it was real.
It fits. It fit perfectly. The photo. The little girl on the swing. It wasn't a stolen memory. It was her.
Norah was Aria.
His best friend. The girl he had mourned for two decades. The ghost that had haunted his childhood.
She was alive.
Ethan's eyes sparked immediately when he heard what Miriam said.
It wasn't anger at first. It was a shock. It was a tidal wave of disbelief. She was alive. She had been in his arms. He had made love to the girl he thought was dead.
But then, the second wave hit.
If she was Aria Delaney... and she was pretending to be Norah... and she had the files on his father...
Why?
Why didn't she tell him? Why did she lie? Why did she let him mourn her?
"Why would she want to bring my father down?" he whispered, forgetting Miriam was on the phone.
But he knew the answer. He knew his father. He knew Norman Malcovich was a shark who had swallowed the Delaney company whole the moment the family died.
If Aria was alive, she knew. She knew Norman had stolen her legacy.
She hadn't come back for Ethan. She hadn't come back for love. She had come back for war.
She was using him. She was using his body, his heart, his trust, to get close to the man she hated.
The betrayal was absolute. It was sharper than any knife. The woman he loved was a construct. A weapon forged in the fires of revenge.
"Ethan?" Miriam asked on the phone. "Ethan, are you there? Did you hear me?"
Ethan didn't answer. He couldn't speak. His throat was closed up with grief and rage.
But Miriam got angry because Ethan never responded as if he cared. She had given him the biggest truth of his life, and he was giving her silence.
"Ethan!" she snapped. "I am trying to save you! She is a fraud! She is dangerous!"
Ethan lowered the phone. He didn't hang up. He just dropped it onto the passenger seat.
He stared at the dashboard. He felt cold. Ice cold.
The tears were gone. The sadness was gone. In their place was a hollow, echoing void.
He opened the car door.
He walked like a zombie. His movements were mechanical. He walked past the driver who was returning with a tire gauge. He walked past the security guard who nodded at him.
He stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button for the top floor.
The doors closed, sealing him in.
He stood there, watching the numbers climb. He didn't think about the business deal in Tokyo. He didn't think about the gala.
He thought about the little girl on the swing. And he thought about the woman in his bed.