The Scent Of Ghost
Rafael Aldridge leaned back in his chair, the dim glow of his office lamp casting long shadows across his desk. His fingers tapped idly against the polished wood, his gaze fixed on the large window overlooking the university courtyard.
He should have been focused on real matters—business, power, the empire waiting for him outside of this place. But his mind was somewhere else.
Or rather—on someone else.
Amara Lenz.
He had seen how they looked at her today.
With mockery.
With amusement.
Like she was nothing more than a cheap, fragile thing, a girl who didn't belong in the world of power and privilege.
And yet, even as she stood there—**soaked, humiliated, shaking from the cold—**she did not break.
They laughed at her, and she didn't flinch.
That intrigued him.
Most people—when faced with humiliation—either fought back or crumbled.
But Amara?
She endured.
And somehow, that irritated him more than anything.
She was not meant to be pitiful.
She was not meant to be weak.
And yet, in the eyes of the world—she was powerless.
A nobody.
A girl they thought they could mock without consequences.
Fools.
Because Rafael Aldridge did not let things go.
And he had no intention of letting this go.
The boys who had humiliated Amara had already felt the weight of his warning, but warnings were never enough. Fear only worked when it was reinforced.
That's why, hours after his initial message, their lesson truly began.
It started with a phone call—a simple, effortless move on his part.
By morning, one of the boys had lost his family's internship deal with a high-profile company. A sudden decision. Unexplained. Non-negotiable.
Another found himself under disciplinary review for something he hadn't even realized he'd done—but Rafael had made sure the university saw it as an act of misconduct.
And the last?
His father's business stocks plummeted overnight.
Not because Rafael had directly intervened. No—he didn't need to dirty his hands with such trivial matters.
Power worked best when it felt invisible.
By the time they realized who had orchestrated their downfall, it was too late.
There were no apologies they could offer. No deals they could make.
Because Rafael Aldridge did not accept apologies.
He only collected debts.
And they had paid.
Later that night, Rafael found himself outside her apartment.
The street was quiet. Dimly lit. The flickering streetlamp above barely cast enough light to cut through the darkness.
He remained in his car, the engine low and steady as he waited.
She would come.
She had to.
Because she still owed him.
And Rafael Aldridge always collected his debts.
Amara stopped mid-step the moment she saw the black car parked outside her building.
The sleek, expensive vehicle stood out like a predator waiting in the dark.
A shiver ran down her spine—not from the cold this time, but from something deeper.
She didn't have to see who was inside.
She already knew.
The door opened slowly.
And then—he stepped out.
Rafael Aldridge, in his crisp black coat, his presence overwhelming even in the dim glow of the streetlamp.
He didn't move toward her.
He didn't need to.
Because even standing there—he was already in control.
Amara swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the coat she still wore.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice not as steady as she wanted it to be.
He tilted his head slightly, his gray eyes unreadable.
"I believe you have something of mine, Amara."
She should have expected this.
Rafael was not the kind of man who simply gave things away—not without expecting something in return.
Amara pulled the coat closer to herself, her fingers curling into the fabric.
"If you want it back, I'll return it tomorrow."
A soft, amused chuckle left him.
"Tomorrow?" he echoed.
His tone sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't a question. It was amusement at her foolishness.
"No, Amara. You'll return it now."
He took a step closer.
She took one back.
And his smirk deepened.
"Are you afraid of me?"
Her breath hitched.
"No," she lied.
He chuckled again—low, dark, knowing.
"Lying doesn't suit you."
Amara exhaled sharply, forcing herself to lift her chin. She wouldn't play his game.
"It's just a coat," she said flatly.
His gaze flickered.
"Is it?"
The way he said it—as if he knew something she didn't.
"You didn't take it off."
Amara froze.
His words hung between them, heavy with something she couldn't name.
He took another step forward, his eyes watching her far too closely.
"Why?" he asked, softer this time.
She clenched her jaw.
"It was cold."
A slow smirk played at his lips.
"And now?"
Amara hated how her pulse betrayed her.
Because now—she wasn't cold at all.
And Rafael Aldridge knew it.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look away.
"Fine," she muttered, shrugging off the coat.
The moment the warmth left her, a chill crept back in.
She shoved it toward him, but he didn't take it right away. Instead, he studied her for a long, excruciating moment.
Then—finally—he reached for it.
But instead of taking the coat from her hands, his fingers brushed against hers.
A simple touch.
Barely there.
But enough to send a sharp jolt through her veins.
Amara inhaled sharply, pulling back as if burned.
And Rafael?
He was smirking.
"See?" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I told you—lying doesn't suit you."
She hated him.
She hated how he always won.
She hated how he saw too much.
And yet—she couldn't move.
"Good night, Amara."
With that, he turned away.
The coat still warm from her body draped effortlessly over his arm.
And as he slipped back into his car, driving away without another word, Amara realized something terrifying.
Rafael Aldridge hadn't come for his coat.
He had come to remind her that she would never be free of him.
The door shut behind her, but the cold still clung to her like an unshakable shadow.
Amara dropped her soaked bag to the floor, her fingers frozen stiff from the rain. She felt the silence of her apartment pressing in around her, but it wasn't the silence that made her breath tremble. It was the weight of the encounter. The weight of him.
Rafael Aldridge.
She should have thrown his coat away the moment she stepped outside the café.
She should have shrugged it off and left it on the chair—left it with him.
But she hadn't.
Instead, she had walked through the rain, wrapped in the warmth of his presence as if it had been meant for her.
And then—he took it back.
The way his fingers had barely grazed hers, the way his smirk had deepened when she recoiled—it was all a game to him.
And yet, she had still felt cold the moment it left her shoulders.
That was what terrified her most.
Not his power. Not his threats. Not even the past that bound them together in blood and shadows.
But the fact that his presence had ever been comforting at all.
The coat sat on the seat beside him, untouched.
And yet, he couldn't stop glancing at it.
Rafael gripped the wheel tighter, the smooth leather of his gloves pressing into his palms.
The rain hit the windshield in steady streams, his headlights cutting through the darkened streets, but his mind was somewhere else.
He should have left the coat behind.
He should have let her keep it—if only to remind her that it had never been hers to begin with.
And yet, the moment she had tried to hold onto it, the moment she had hesitated—he had taken it back.
Not because he needed it.
But because he had wanted to see her reaction.
Because he had wanted to remind her that nothing came without consequence.
But now—consequences were creeping up on him, too.
His fingers tapped against the wheel, his gray eyes flickering toward the coat again.
The scent lingered.
Jasmine. Something faintly sweet. Something distinctly her.
He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.
Why the hell did it matter?
She was nothing.
And yet, his grip on the wheel only tightened.
The estate was quiet when Rafael returned.
Silent, as always.
He stepped inside, tossing the coat onto the chair near his desk before unbuttoning his gloves, slipping them off with precision.
The staff didn't dare acknowledge his lateness.
No one questioned where he had been.
Because they knew better.
Rafael Aldridge did what he wanted.
And yet, as he settled into the dim light of his study, something was different tonight.
Something unsettled.
He reached for a glass of whiskey—a habit more than a necessity—but stopped halfway.
His gaze had landed on the coat.
And suddenly, it was all he could think about.
That scent.
That lingering trace of her.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair before walking toward it.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the fabric.
It was foolish.
Weak.
And yet, when he finally lifted the coat, fingers grazing the fabric—he caught it again.
Soft. Faint. Jasmine. Warmth.
Something that should not have been haunting him.
His father's voice echoed in his head.
"Power belongs to those who never let themselves be distracted."
And yet, wasn't that what she was? A distraction?
A test of his control.
He clenched his jaw, stepping back from the coat, pushing the thoughts away.
He would not let this affect him.
He had a game to play.
And Amara Lenz was just another piece on the board.
He would make sure of it.