The Vescari Heir and the Phantom Wife

The dining room at Westchester Manor was bathed in the warm, golden glow of crystal chandeliers, but the atmosphere around the polished mahogany table was as cold as a crypt.

Marcus Reed carved the roasted prime rib with sharp, efficient strokes, sliding a thick slice onto Celeste’s plate.

"Another week, and the final transfer of the Vescari construction holdings will be complete," Marcus said, a self-satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "With Roman still reeling from the 'loss' of his wife, he hasn't looked twice at the offshore accounts."

Celeste took a delicate bite of her food, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "He deserved it. He always treated Aurora like a queen while treating the rest of us like hired help. Now, the Vescari empire is essentially ours, wrapped in a neat little legal bow."

Helen Reed dabbed her mouth with a napkin, looking slightly uneasy. "Are we entirely sure there are no loose ends? What about Thomas, the old groundskeeper from the Brooklyn property? He disappeared the same night Aurora did."

"An old man with dementia?" Celeste laughed softly, waving her hand dismissively. "He probably wandered into the river looking for his master. Nobody cares about an old ghost."

"Is that right?"

A voice cut through the dining room like a butcher's knife.

The heavy mahogany double doors of the dining room swung open with a slow, deliberate creak.

Marcus dropped his carving knife. It hit the porcelain plate with a sharp, echoing clang.

Standing in the doorway was Roman Vescari.

His suit was immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted, his expression carved from black granite. But it wasn't Roman alone who stepped into the room. Behind him, flanked by four armed enforcers in tactical black gear, walked Aurora.

Helen gasped, dropping her wineglass. Red wine splattered across the white tablecloth like fresh blood.

Celeste turned chalk-white, her fork slipping from her trembling fingers and clattering against the floor. She stared at Aurora as if she were looking straight through the gates of hell.

"A-Aurora...?" Celeste stammered, her voice pitching upward into a panicked squeak. "You're... you're dead. We saw the footage..."

Aurora walked slowly into the room, stopping at the head of the table. She didn't look angry. She looked terrifyingly calm.

"Miracles happen, Celeste," Aurora said smoothly, resting her hands on the back of an empty chair. "Especially when you have good security and better friends."

Marcus stood up, his face flushing a deep, mottled red as he tried to regain his composure and authority. "Roman! What is the meaning of this? Breaking into our home with armed men—have you lost your mind? Your wife had a tragic accident, and now you bring armed thugs into our family dinner?"

Roman didn't even look at Marcus. His obsidian eyes remained locked entirely on Celeste, who was hyperventilating in her seat.

"Family," Roman repeated, his voice a low, gravelly growl that vibrated through the floorboards. "You talk about family while you sold my wife to a hit squad, forged medical records, and tried to hollow out my empire from the inside out."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out the leather-bound ledger Aurora had given him, and tossed it directly onto the center of the dining table, scattering the silverware.