The Ghosts of the Living

AURORA

The door clicked shut.

She didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

She stood there, her fingers curled around the key he had pressed into her palm, her pulse roaring in her ears.

The weight of his presence still lingered, thick in the air, wrapping around her like unseen chains.

She hated it.

Hated the way her body responded to him.

Hated that he made her feel something when she'd spent years learning how to feel nothing.

Aurora inhaled slowly, forcing herself to move. She stepped forward, her boots silent against the carpet, and locked the door. A useless gesture—he'd gotten in before, he'd get in again—but it made her feel in control, even if it was an illusion.

She leaned against the wood, squeezing her eyes shut.

Her father would kill her if he knew.

And if he didn't—whoever he was preserving her for would.

Preserving.

The word curdled in her stomach.

She didn't know the details, didn't know who or what she was being promised to, but she knew enough.

She wasn't a daughter.

She was a pawn.

A carefully kept prize for a man who had built his empire on debts and blood.

---

Richard Sinclair had always been a man who lived in the shadows.

He didn't need to yell to make people afraid. He didn't need to raise a hand to make them hurt.

His words were enough.

His presence was enough.

Growing up, Aurora had learned that silence was safer than questions. That obedience was rewarded, and defiance—no matter how small—came with consequences.

At five, she'd spilled juice on the dining table.

She didn't remember the punishment.

Only the cold floor against her cheek and the taste of copper on her tongue.

At ten, she'd hidden a stray cat in her room for two days before the housekeeper found it.

It had disappeared by morning.

At sixteen, she'd lied about her whereabouts.

Her father had known before she even walked through the door.

She didn't leave the house for months after that.

Richard Sinclair didn't tolerate betrayal.

And family?

Family meant nothing to him.

Not unless it was useful.

Aurora wasn't his daughter.

She was his investment.

And her mother?

Her mother had been a cautionary tale.

---

The woman who had given birth to her barely existed anymore.

Vivian Sinclair had been beautiful once.

She had been strong once.

Aurora remembered hazy glimpses of a mother who had held her tightly, who had whispered lullabies in a voice that wavered but never broke.

But strength didn't matter when you were married to a man like Richard.

Over time, the light had gone out.

Vivian had learned how to survive—how to keep her head down, how to drink her pain away, how to pretend she wasn't drowning.

She had loved Aurora.

Aurora knew that.

But love wasn't enough.

Not in this house.

Not in this family.

Vivian had chosen survival over saving her.

And for that, Aurora would never forgive her.

---

LUCIAN

Aurora Sinclair wasn't what he expected.

He had known her name before he ever laid eyes on her.

Knew the rumors, the whispers.

Knew that she was Richard Sinclair's most valuable possession.

But he hadn't known her.

Not the way he did now.

Not the way he would.

She was delicate, but not fragile.

She was afraid, but not broken.

Not yet.

He had broken stronger women than her.

Had turned defiance into submission.

Had twisted fear into something deeper, darker, irrevocable.

But there was something about her.

Something that made his hands itch and his blood hum.

It wasn't just the way she looked—though fuck, she was beautiful.

It was the way she had stared him down even when she was trembling.

The way she hadn't begged.

The way she had held his gaze and challenged him.

She had no idea what she was up against.

What he was capable of.

But she would.

And when she did?

She wouldn't be able to walk away.

He wouldn't let her.

He smirked to himself as he slid into his car.

He had a meeting to attend—an unfinished job to complete.

But she was now at the top of his list.

And soon enough?

She'd know it.

She'd feel it.

And she'd never escape it.

---

AURORA

The house was still empty when she woke up the next morning.

It should have been a relief.

Instead, it felt like a warning.

She dressed carefully, her movements slow and methodical, her mind turning over every interaction from the night before.

The man.

The one who had invaded her room, her space—her mind.

His presence had unsettled her, shaken something loose inside her chest.

He was dangerous.

She knew that.

But the worst part?

She wasn't sure if she wanted to run from him—or if she wanted him to come back.

Aurora closed her eyes, exhaling sharply.

She was losing her mind.

She grabbed her bag and stepped out of the room, her boots clicking softly against the hardwood as she made her way downstairs.

The house was silent, suffocating in its emptiness.

She moved toward the front door, her fingers hovering over the handle—

"Aurora."

The voice stopped her cold.

Deep.

Smooth.

Familiar.

She turned slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Her father stood in the doorway to his study, watching her.

Dark suit, cold eyes, the ever-present air of control wrapped around him like a second skin.

Richard Sinclair didn't smile.

Didn't show warmth.

But his expression was unreadable, and that was worse.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

Aurora forced herself to meet his gaze.

"Class."

A long pause.

Then, "Come inside."

It wasn't a request.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the study.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And she knew, with certainty—

Something was about to change.