The Ghost of Jackson Whitmore
Sorry, Miss Calloway, but we can't approve an extension.
We sympathize with your situation, but we've exhausted all options.
We understand your father's legacy, but the bank has its policies.
The same cold phrases, the same lifeless apologies.
She exhaled sharply, flipping on the turn signal. The gallery's eviction notice weighed heavy in her bag, though the real weight sat on her chest a slow, suffocating pressure.
Then, as she pulled to a stop at a red light, the past hit her like a bullet to the ribs.
There he was.
Jackson Whitmore.
His face towered above her in a massive digital billboard sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, the kind that once softened only for her. He was even more chiseled than before, his dark hair cropped to ruthless perfection, the curve of his jawline dusted with the faintest shadow of stubble.
Billionaire, CEO, ruthless negotiator. A man who walked into boardrooms and left them conquered.
Charlotte's throat dried.
St. Louis' Golden Boy Returns, the screen flashed in bold white letters beneath his image.
The light turned green, but she barely noticed. A car horn blared behind her, jolting her back into motion. She hit the gas, pulse hammering in her ears as she sped through the intersection.
It had been seven years. Seven years since she'd last seen him since everything fell apart.
She hadn't just lost a lover that night. She'd lost the future she thought they were building together.
And now, out of nowhere, he was back.
But it wasn't just the billboard.
At the next stoplight, she glanced at the newsstand on the sidewalk. There it was again a glossy magazine with Jackson's face gracing the cover, his smirk subtle, confident, untouchable.
Inside her bag, her phone buzzed. An instinct made her reach for it, but before she could check, a voice crackled through the radio.
and in today's financial headlines, Jackson Whitmore, CEO of Whitmore Enterprises, has returned to St. Louis for what sources say is a major business deal
Charlotte sucked in a sharp breath.
Everywhere. He was everywhere.
She tightened her grip on the wheel and swallowed hard.
It didn't matter. He didn't matter.
Jackson Whitmore had no place in her life anymore.
And yet, as she turned onto her street, her mind whispered a dangerous thought
What if he was the only one who could save her?
The rain had stopped by the time Charlotte reached her apartment, but the air still carried that damp, heavy scent of a city washed clean. She climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the keys. The moment the door shut behind her, the weight of the evening crashed over her like a tidal wave.
Jackson Whitmore was back.
The past had clawed its way into the present, dragging her under before she even had a chance to breathe.
She tossed her bag onto the couch, kicked off her heels, and paced to the kitchen, reaching for a half empty bottle of wine. The cork popped with a sharp pull, and she poured a glass, hands unsteady.
She shouldn't care.
She shouldn't feel anything.
And yet
She sank onto the couch, staring at the city skyline beyond her window, and the memories came.
Seven years ago.
A warm summer night.
A rooftop bathed in golden light, the city stretching endlessly below.
And Jackson, standing behind her, his arms circling her waist, his lips brushing the curve of her neck.
You don't have to be afraid of anything, Charlie,he had whispered against her skin, his voice that perfect mix of teasing and sincerity. I'd burn the whole world down before I let anything hurt you.
She had believed him.
God help her, she had believed every word.
The memory twisted, shifting
To another night.
A colder night.
The night everything shattered.
Charlotte had stood in her father's gallery, heart pounding as she clutched the eviction notice, her hands gripping the paper so tightly it crumpled at the edges.
You knew. Her voice had been barely above a whisper, but it held a tremor of fury. You knew your father was behind this.
Jackson's face had been unreadable stone cold, utterly impassive.
I didn't have a choice, Charlotte.
His words had been an ice pick to the ribs.
There's always a choice.
Not when it comes to my family.
That was the moment she realized the truth.
Jackson Whitmore might have loved her, but he had never been hers to keep.
She had left that night, walking out into the rain, refusing to look back.
And Jackson?
He let her go.
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against her temples, as if she could block out the pain that still lived beneath her skin.
Seven years.
She had built a life without him.
She had survived.
But now…
Now, the gallery was on the verge of being taken away, just like before.
And Jackson was the only man powerful enough to stop it.
Her grip tightened around the glass, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Could she face him again after what happened between them?
Charlotte sat at her small, secondhand desk, the glow of her laptop screen casting eerie shadows across the dimly lit apartment. The wineglass sat untouched beside her now, the bitterness of memory too strong to drown in alcohol.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Jackson Whitmore.
Just typing his name felt like opening a wound that had barely scarred over.
The cursor blinked, waiting.
She inhaled sharply and typed: Whitmore Enterprises.
A flood of results appeared.
The company had grown no, exploded.
Jackson had transformed his father's empire into something even more formidable. He had branched into tech, real estate, luxury brands. His name wasn't just attached to St. Louis anymore; it was in New York, Dubai, London.
There were pictures, too.
Him stepping out of a private jet.
Him shaking hands with politicians.
Him walking beside a stunning woman in a designer gown at a gala.
Charlotte's stomach twisted.
A part of her had hoped what? That he had suffered like she had? That losing her had left even a fraction of the scar he had left on her?
Ridiculous.
Jackson Whitmore didn't break.
He built. He conquered. He moved on.
She exhaled, dragging a hand through her hair.
Focus, Charlie.
She clicked through articles, searching for something anything that could help.
Then she found it.
Whitmore Enterprises' New Headquarters Now in St. Louis.
She stared.
His office was here. Right here in the city.
This wasn't just a homecoming. He was expanding.
Charlotte's heart pounded.
This was her chance.
Before she could overthink it, she navigated to the Contact Us page.
There was no direct number, of course. No way to reach Jackson himself.
But there was an email for executive inquiries.
Charlotte hesitated for only a second before she started typing.
To: executive.assistant@whitmoreenterprises.com
Subject: Urgent Business Inquiry
She kept it short. Professional. Direct.
Dear Mr. Whitmore,
I am reaching out regarding an urgent matter concerning Calloway Art Gallery. I believe this discussion will be beneficial for both of us. Please let me know when you would be available to meet.
Best,
Charlotte Calloway
She read it twice. It was neutral, detached.
It didn't reveal that she was desperate. That this was her last hope.
Her finger hovered over the send button.
Then she clicked it.
A rush of nerves shot through her.
Would he even see it? Would he remember her name? Would he care?
She pushed the thoughts aside, shutting the laptop.
All she could do now was wait.
The reply came faster than she expected.
Her phone buzzed. A notification popped up.
Whitmore Enterprises: New Email.
She clicked.
The response was brief. Cold.
Mr. Whitmore has no interest in meeting with random people.
Her breath caught.
She read the sentence again, the sting of it sharp, undeniable.
Not even a signature. Not even a polite rejection.
Just that.
Mr. Whitmore has no interest in meeting with random people.
Charlotte's grip on the phone tightened.
He hadn't forgotten her.
He was dismissing her.
Like she meant nothing.
Like she was nothing.
Heat flared in her chest, replacing the ache with something sharper.
Fine.
If Jackson Whitmore thought she was just another random person, he was about to learn exactly how wrong he was.
Because she wasn't going to let this go.
Not now.
Not ever.