CHAPTER 2: The Phantom's Shadow
New York, 1998
Serena woke with a sharp inhale, her breath catching in her throat.
The silk sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat, the cold night air doing little to chase away the heat clinging to her skin. The city hummed outside, a distant melody of life-muffled, muted, as if it existed in a world separate from hers.
Inside this room, inside her chest, there was nothing but silence.
A silence so thick, so suffocating, it felt like drowning.
She didn't move at first. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of dawn casting fractured patterns against the molding.
It was a dream.
It had to be.
But then-
His voice.
The memory of it coiled around her spine, a whisper of steel and silk.
"Did you miss me, Serena?"
Low. Smooth. The same, yet different.
She had turned, slow, disbelieving-and he had been right there.
Right beside her.
Close enough that his breath had brushed against her skin.
Close enough that she had seen the sharpness in his eyes, the flicker of something unreadable lurking beneath the ice.
Close enough that she had forgotten how to breathe.
Her body had frozen, her mind scrambling for logic, for reason, for any explanation other than the one her senses screamed at her to accept.
Because it was him.
Not a memory.
Not a hallucination.
Him.
Lukas.
Older. Sharper. Etched with something far colder than the man she had once known.
She had reached for him-desperate, unthinking-
But her fingers had met nothing.
Air.
And then, he was gone.
Like a whisper that had never been spoken.
Serena squeezed her eyes shut, her breath slowing, steadying.
It wasn't real.
It couldn't be real.
She had buried him.
Had watched the light leave his eyes, had felt his body still beneath her hands-
Her stomach twisted.
A part of her wanted to shake it off, to push the thought away like a bad dream.
But the other part-the part that knew-
It wouldn't let go.
Because she could still feel it.
The ghost of his presence.
The warmth of his breath against her skin.
The heat of his body near hers.
Real.
It had felt real.
And if it was real...
Then she wasn't just haunted.
She was hunted.
And ghosts didn't come back to forgive.
---
The Watch
The knock at the door came just before sunset.
Sharp. Measured.
Serena barely glanced at the grand clock across the room as she walked to the door. She had been expecting something.
She just hadn't known what.
When she opened it, a delivery man stood in the hall, unremarkable in his black uniform. Tall, lean, impatient in the way all delivery men were. His eyes flicked to her only briefly before he held out a small black package, wrapped in thick, expensive paper.
"Sign here, ma'am."
His voice was uninterested.
Serena took the pen, her signature fluid, betraying nothing. She handed it back, and the man turned, disappearing down the corridor without another word.
She shut the door.
The package sat heavy in her palm.
It shouldn't have felt heavy-it was small, barely the size of her hand-but the weight of it pressed into her skin, familiar in a way she didn't want to acknowledge.
Something about it was wrong.
She walked to the bar, setting it down on the marble counter. The city stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a wash of gold and deep blue as the skyline flickered in the dying light.
She didn't turn on the lamps.
Didn't need to.
Instead, she traced a single finger along the edge of the wrapping.
Thick. Pricey. Not something an amateur would use.
This wasn't a message from a rival or an envious socialite.
Whoever sent it had money.
Power.
Intent.
She unwrapped it slowly, methodically, refusing to let her hands tremble. Beneath the paper, a sleek black velvet box waited.
She knew.
Before she even opened it, she knew.
But when she lifted the lid, the breath left her lungs anyway.
A watch.
Not just any watch.
His watch.
Her fingers curled over the edge of the box, tightening.
It was impossible.
She had seen it that night.
Had left it behind, soaked in his blood.
Her pulse pounded against her ribs, sharp and insistent.
Someone was playing a game.
A cruel, calculated game.
She hadn't seen this watch in five years.
Hadn't touched it since that night.
The last time she had, his blood had still been warm.
She should have thrown the box.
Should have burned it.
Should have done anything but what she did next.
Her fingers twitched.
And before she could stop herself-
She reached for it.
The metal was ice-cold.
A sharp chill slid down her spine.
The watch slipped from her grasp, hitting the marble floor with a quiet thud.
Serena didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Her body was locked in place, muscles coiled tight.
She hadn't been afraid when Lukas died.
She had been calm. Methodical. Certain.
But now-
A slow, creeping unease curled around her throat.
Because ghosts didn't send warnings.
Men did.
And if Lukas was alive...
A knock at the doorway made her whirl, her heartbeat a hammer against her ribs.
Her butler stood there, composed as ever.
"Madam, Mr. Blackwood is on his way home."
Serena exhaled, smoothing a hand down the front of her dress.
"Prepare dinner."
Her voice was steady. Unshaken.
But beneath it-beneath the careful mask-
Her hands told a different story.
Damien was coming home.
And she had a ghost to bury.
Moscow, Russia
The air was thick with the metallic scent of winter, the cold pressing against the city like an iron grip. Snow clung to the edges of the pavement, dirtied by the endless stream of cars moving through the streets. The city was alive, humming beneath the surface, its heartbeat found in dimly lit bars, hushed conversations, and the quiet exchange of power in the dead of night.
Inside a private club hidden beneath one of Moscow's oldest hotels, Viktor Petrov sat in silence, nursing a glass of vodka that he had barely touched. The room was dimly lit, the scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air. A fire crackled in the grand fireplace, its flames casting long shadows across the mahogany walls.
He was a man who commanded silence.
Even among the most powerful, Viktor never needed to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough. A broad-shouldered figure in a dark tailored suit, his graying hair slicked back with precision. A thin scar ran from his temple to his cheekbone, a remnant of a war long won. His icy blue eyes, sharp as a blade, saw everything, missed nothing.
He had ruled Moscow's underworld for decades. Intelligence, arms, assassinations-nothing moved in this city without Viktor's knowledge. He had no interest in chaos, only control. Those who disrupted that balance were dealt with before they became problems.
And yet, tonight, something was off.
A quiet unease crept into his bones, something unfamiliar.
The doors to the club opened, allowing a gust of cold air to slip through before they shut again. A figure entered, moving with a deliberate, unhurried pace.
Viktor didn't look up immediately. He never did. If a man was worth his attention, he would prove it in his presence alone.
But when he finally did lift his gaze, his fingers tightened around the glass.
The man before him was a ghost.
The same sharp features, the same piercing blue eyes-but this was not the Lukas he had once known. That man had been younger, too trusting, still playing by the rules.
This man...
He moved like a phantom.
Controlled. Cold. A force that didn't belong to the living.
Lukas sat down across from him, silent for a moment. The air between them stretched thin, heavy with unspoken history.
Viktor finally leaned back, his expression unreadable. He wasn't afraid-not yet. But there was something unsettling about the way Lukas looked at him.
"You should be dead."
Lukas's lips curled into a smirk, but there was no warmth in it.
"Disappointed?"
Viktor studied him carefully. The voice was familiar, but there was something different now. It lacked the arrogance of youth, the uncertainty of a man still learning the weight of power.
No.
This was a man who had already lost everything.
And that made him dangerous.
"Where have you been?" Viktor asked, voice measured.
Lukas leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"Buried."
The single word sent a chill through the room.
Viktor said nothing, but for the first time in years, he felt something unexpected.
Uncertainty.
The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy. The crackling fire was the only sound, but even that felt muted under the weight of Lukas's presence.
Viktor took a slow sip of vodka, his sharp eyes never leaving the man in front of him. He had seen death before. He had sent men to their graves with a word, a glance, a movement of his hand. He knew what ghosts looked like, the way they clung to the edges of the world, desperate to be remembered.
But Lukas wasn't a ghost.
He was something else entirely.
"Buried." Viktor repeated the word as if tasting it. He set the glass down, the sound ringing in the quiet room. "I assume you didn't come back to reminisce."
Lukas tilted his head slightly, his smirk almost lazy.
"No."
Viktor's fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, slow and thoughtful.
"Then tell me... why are you here?"
For the first time, Lukas leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table between them. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the cold calculation in his eyes.
"I need something from you."
Viktor let out a quiet breath, more amused than surprised.
"Everyone does."
Lukas didn't blink.
"I want a name."
That made Viktor pause.
Names were currency in Moscow. A name could open doors or seal coffins. It could change the course of an empire or bring it crumbling down. And if Lukas had come to him for one, it meant the man was after something-or someone-that wasn't easy to reach.
Viktor studied him for a long moment.
"And why should I give you one?"
Lukas's smirk disappeared.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Viktor had faced men who begged, threatened, bribed, and bled for information. But he had never faced a man who looked at him the way Lukas did now-like he already knew the answer.
Like he had already decided how this conversation would end.
"You don't have a choice."
The words weren't spoken as a threat. There was no need.
Viktor exhaled through his nose, setting his glass aside.
"You've changed."
Lukas didn't deny it.
A long pause. Then Viktor leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin.
"Tell me, Lukas... whose name are you looking for?"
Lukas didn't answer immediately. He just watched Viktor, his expression unreadable, his body eerily still.
For the first time in years, Viktor felt something foreign. Hesitation.
Because he knew-Lukas didn't just want a name.
He wanted the truth.
And the truth... was dangerous.
Viktor exhaled slowly, reaching for his glass. He took a measured sip before setting it down with a deliberate clink against the polished wood.
His voice, quieter now, carried something almost unreadable.
"I have it."
A pause.
A long, deliberate pause.
Lukas still didn't move. He didn't blink. He just sat there, waiting.
Viktor smirked slightly, but there was no amusement in it. Only calculation.
"But not tonight."
Lukas's lips twitched-not in irritation, not in surprise, but in something Viktor couldn't quite name.
The tension in the room shifted, sharp as a blade.
Whatever name Viktor held...
It was going to change everything.
For now, Viktor just studied him. The way Lukas didn't push, didn't demand.
Because that was the final proof.
Whatever had crawled out of that grave...
Wasn't the same man who had gone in.
The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows across the room.
Viktor leaned back in his chair, studying Lukas in silence. The weight of history sat between them, thick and unspoken.
And then-
"Tell me, Lukas..." Viktor's voice was quiet, measured.
"Does she know?"
The question cut through the air like a blade.
Lukas didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
For a long moment, he just stared at Viktor, the flickering light catching the sharp edges of his face.
And then-
He smirked.
"She will."
Viktor exhaled, swirling the vodka in his glass. There was something unreadable in his gaze. Something almost... amused.
"You loved her once." It wasn't a question.
Lukas's smirk didn't falter, but something cold flickered in his eyes.
"Once."
Viktor chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
"Love like that doesn't just die."
Lukas leaned forward then, slow, calculated. His fingers toyed with the edge of his glass.
"No," he murmured. "It doesn't."
A beat of silence.
Then, a single word.
One that carried the weight of five years buried beneath betrayal.
"But it can be killed."
New York, 1992
🔥 The Night It All Began 🔥
The past came back like a phantom.
One moment, Lukas Carter was in Moscow, the cold biting into his skin, the weight of revenge settling into his bones.
And suddenly-
He was there.
Back in New York.
Back before it all fell apart.
Back before Serena Hawthorne shattered him.
The city pulsed around him, alive with the hum of night, but he wasn't outside anymore.
He was in her penthouse.
In her arms.
And he could still feel it.
The way her skin burned beneath his touch.
The way her lips tasted like sin and champagne.
The way her body fit against his like she had been carved just for him.
A memory. A warning. A beginning.
---
Five Years Before the Betrayal
The penthouse was drenched in golden light, the city stretching out below like a sea of glittering stars.
The silk of her dress pooled at her feet, forgotten.
And Lukas was still fully clothed.
Because this wasn't just sex.
It was control.
It was watching her squirm, making her crave, beg, unravel before he even touched her.
His fingers traced the inside of her thigh, slow, torturous, his blue eyes locked onto hers.
"Look at you," Lukas murmured, his voice low, thick with amusement. "Already falling apart for me."
Serena inhaled sharply. "You're not even touching me."
A smirk.
A slow, dangerous smirk.
"Exactly."
And then-
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not sweet.
It was rough, deep, consuming, his tongue sliding against hers like he was claiming every inch of her mouth.
His teeth nipped at her lower lip, making her gasp.
Lukas caught the sound in his mouth, swallowing it whole.
Serena's hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, but he didn't let her take control.
No.
His hands wrapped around her wrists, pinning them against the cold glass.
"You don't touch," he murmured, his lips brushing against hers.
Serena's breath hitched.
"But you are," she whispered.
Lukas grinned against her lips, feral, possessive.
"That's because I can do whatever I want to you."
His mouth moved lower, trailing over her jaw, down her throat, biting down just enough to make her moan.
A mark. A claim.
His tongue soothed the bite, his lips moving down, down, down-
Over the soft swell of her breast.
Serena shuddered, arching into him, needing more.
Lukas chuckled. "Patience."
But he didn't mean it.
Because he wasn't patient.
Not with her.
His mouth closed over her nipple, hot, wet, sucking just right.
Serena moaned, her head falling back.
"Lukas-"
His teeth dragged over the sensitive bud, a sharp contrast to his tongue.
Serena cried out, her thighs clenching.
But Lukas wasn't done.
Not even close.
His hands slid lower, gripping her ass, lifting her up like she weighed nothing.
Serena's legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.
And then-
The first roll of his hips.
His hard length pressed against her soaked heat, teasing, torturing.
"Fuck, you feel perfect," Lukas growled, grinding against her, making her feel exactly how hard she made him.
Serena whimpered, trying to move-but his grip was relentless.
"You want it?" His voice was pure sin, his fingers digging into her thighs.
"Yes," she gasped. "Lukas, please-"
"Not yet."
Serena let out a strangled moan as Lukas dropped to his knees, spreading her open against the window.
His breath was warm against her aching core, his lips hovering just above her soaking wet folds.
He grinned. "Look at you, sweetheart."
His fingers spread her apart, teasing.
"Already so fucking wet for me."
Serena trembled, her hands gripping the windowsill.
"Lukas," she whimpered. "Please."
He exhaled against her clit, the warmth making her shudder.
"Say it properly."
Serena's chest rose and fell quickly, her nails digging into the glass.
"Please eat me, Lukas."
His smirk was pure fucking arrogance.
"Good girl."
And then-
His tongue slid through her folds.
Serena screamed.
He licked her slowly, teasingly, taking his time to taste every inch of her.
His tongue circled her clit, flicking just enough to make her shake.
Her legs threatened to close, but Lukas's grip on her thighs was iron.
"Stay open for me."
Serena moaned as he sucked her clit into his mouth, rolling it between his lips.
"Fuck-oh my God-"
Lukas chuckled against her before sliding his fingers inside her.
One. Then two.
Stretching her. Curling just right.
Serena thrashed, her body begging for more.
Lukas groaned against her as he fucked her with his fingers, his mouth never leaving her clit.
"Come for me," he commanded.
Serena let go.
Her orgasm crashed into her, violent, overwhelming, white-hot pleasure flooding her veins.
Lukas didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
He kept licking, kept sucking, kept fucking her with his fingers until she was shaking, sobbing from the overstimulation.
Only then did he stand.
His lips were slick with her arousal, his blue eyes burning.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Now," he murmured, undoing his belt, his pants falling to the floor.
Serena's breath caught as she saw him, thick, hard, already leaking.
Lukas grabbed her waist, spun her around, and bent her over the windowsill.
The entire city was right below her.
Anyone could see.
And she didn't care.
"Tell me who owns this pussy," Lukas growled, rubbing his cock through her soaked folds.
Serena whimpered, pushing back against him, desperate, mindless.
"You do."
Lukas smirked.
"Good girl."
And then-
He slammed into her.
Serena screamed.
Her nails scraped against the glass, her body stretching around his cock, taking every inch.
"Fuck," Lukas groaned, gripping her hips.
"You're so fucking tight."
He pulled out-**just to the tip-**then slammed back in.
Serena cried out, her whole body shaking.
Lukas fucked her deep, rough, relentless, each thrust branding her, claiming her.
His hand wrapped around her throat, pulling her back against his chest.
"Look at yourself."
Serena opened her eyes, looking at her reflection in the window.
Her lips were parted, her eyes wild, her skin flushed.
Lukas was behind her, fucking her like he owned her.
Because he did.
And when she came again, shattered against him, Lukas whispered-
"There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you."
New York, 1992
Serena lay tangled in silk sheets, her body still thrumming from the aftershocks of Lukas's touch. The heat between them hadn't faded-it lingered, thick, wrapping around them like a vice.
Lukas lay beside her, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths. He was still inside her, still deep, still heavy against her skin.
Neither of them spoke.
Because they didn't need to.
The city hummed softly outside the window, neon lights flickering against the glass, but inside this room-inside this moment-everything was still.
Serena turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him.
The glow from the skyline spilled over his skin, tracing the sharp edges of his face, the damp strands of golden-brown hair clinging to his forehead. His blue eyes, half-lidded, unreadable, watched her with something dangerous.
Something certain.
And then-
He reached for her.
Slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the feel of her.
His fingers traced lazy circles over her bare shoulder, down her arm, over her ribs-mapping her. Claiming her.
"Mine," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, so soft, so quiet-but absolute.
Serena swallowed, her throat tight. "You think so?"
Lukas's lips curled into a smirk, but there was something darker beneath it.
"No." His thumb dragged over the curve of her hip, his grip tightening.
"I know so."
A shiver crawled up her spine.
Not from fear.
From something far worse.
Because Serena Hawthorne didn't belong to anyone.
Not then.
Not ever.
And if Lukas truly believed she did-
One day...
She would prove him wrong.