Chapter 44 The Uninvited Hour

The doors parted once more, letting Aldrin and Iris slip quietly back into the warmth of the ballroom. Her hand still tingled where his had held it — not tightly, not possessively, but like something sacred had passed between them. The intimacy of the balcony still lingered in the air around them, soft as breath.

Marek was the first to spot them.

"No kiss?" he quipped, eyes dancing with mischief. "All that moonlight and you return… respectfully unscandalous? Shameful."

Iris arched a brow, unbothered and radiant in emerald. Aldrin, cool as ever, only smirked.

Ainsworth, however, leaned in with a dramatic sigh.

"We stopped royalty for you two. Do you know the political currency we just spent?"

He clutched his chest theatrically. "The princess will have our heads. All eight of them."

"I'd like to keep mine," Marek muttered. "It's the only thing that still fits in hats."

Iris laughed then — really laughed — and the men blinked in surprise at the sound. Aldrin didn't laugh, but his smile tugged a little deeper than usual. It softened the edge of him.

Their laughter was short-lived, but it lingered like warmth on fingertips after holding a cup of tea.

"I needed that," Iris admitted, slipping easily beside Isabella, who offered her a look both knowing and unreadable.

But before the mood could settle too deep, the temperature of the room shifted.

Not literally — not the air, nor the lighting. It was something felt.

The doors at the far end opened one last time.

A hush draped the room like silk as the final guest arrived.

She stepped in unannounced.

Unescorted.

Wrapped in full white.

Her gown shimmered like fresh snow under moonlight, long-sleeved and high-necked, the fabric flowing like still water. A soft veil covered her head and shoulders, not bridal — but ceremonial. Intentional. And her face, mostly obscured, was marked by the way she moved.

Graceful.

Precise.

Like every step remembered a past no one else could see.

She did not look around. Not at the crowd. Not at the chandelier or the murmurs forming in her wake. She walked slowly, quietly, until she reached the far edge of the room and stood — still, waiting, like a specter summoned too late.

And something in Aldrin turned to ice.

His breath caught — not from beauty. Not admiration.

Recognition.

Marek noticed the shift first, his smirk fading like fog.

Ainsworth followed, eyes narrowing as he studied the figure across the room.

"Aldrin?" he asked, voice unusually level. "You okay?"

But Aldrin's gaze didn't move. His jaw tensed, his brow furrowed — just slightly. But enough to fracture the calm around him.

And then, one name broke past his lips.

Low.

Hoarse.

Like a ghost dragging itself up his throat.

"…Mara?"

The room didn't hear it.

But Marek and Ainsworth did.

And the chapter closed in silence — on a name, a face veiled in white, and the man who had weathered storms now standing in the eye of another.

She entered like a memory dressed in silk — and just as impossible to ignore.

The room was thinning, guests beginning to drift into their final drinks and farewells. The orchestra was quieting, the moonlight from the balcony casting long silver shadows across polished floors. Laughter was soft, movements graceful — until the doors opened again.

She did not knock. She did not pause.

Mara walked into the gala as if it had been built for her arrival — late, deliberate, divine. Her gown was white, pure in shade but predatory in design. Long-sleeved, fitted like a second skin, with delicate embroidery that caught the light like frost. A veil covered her head, but not her presence.

Eight guards flanked the entrance. Not in suits. Not disguised.

Uniformed. Silent. Military.

"Well, that's a new one," Ainsworth muttered, his hand tightening around his glass.

"Either someone's afraid of ghosts," Marek added, "or she is one."

They didn't recognize her.

But Aldrin did.

He always would.

Every part of him froze like his blood remembered something his mind hadn't dared summon in years. His shoulders locked. His jaw clenched. A storm gathered behind his eyes.

She moved through the crowd like a specter, like a knife that had learned to walk on heels. Conversations paused. Attention rippled. The music, subdued as it was, seemed to stutter beneath the weight of her arrival.

Isabella's eyes narrowed.

Iris, standing at the edge of the balcony doors, felt it before she saw it. A cold breeze at her back. The kind of silence that meant something ancient had entered the room.

Mara stopped across from them. A perfect distance. Close enough to see the shock in Aldrin's face. Far enough to watch it grow.

She lifted a hand, pale fingers curling around the edge of her veil.

One slow, smooth motion. Down.

And there she was.

Mara.

Unchanged.

Unaged.

Unforgiven.

"Did you miss me?"

Her voice was smoke and silk, familiar in the way old scars are.

Aldrin stared.

"You're supposed to be dead."

"Supposed to be," she said, stepping forward. "But you know me. I never was good at following scripts."

Her eyes sparkled, not with joy — but with the thrill of impact. She had planned this moment down to its last breath. Had chosen this night. This look. This stage.

She didn't look at Iris. Not once.

Instead, she walked right to Aldrin, every heel-click a countdown.

"You didn't think I'd let you build all of this without saying hello, did you?" she asked.

Marek shifted beside him. Ainsworth was still. Even Isabella, usually poised, had gone unnervingly quiet.

"You're a ghost," Aldrin murmured. "You died."

Mara smiled. It wasn't cruel — not exactly. It was knowing.

"That's the beautiful thing about death, darling. It's so subjective."

She lifted her gloved hand and, with agonizing intimacy, placed it against his chest.

Right over the heart that once beat in rhythm with hers.

"Still warm," she whispered. "Still full of foolish hope."

His voice cracked like gravel under weight.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing you haven't already promised once," she said softly. "You just forgot. I didn't."

She leaned in, close enough for only him to hear.

"You see, we weren't just lovers. We were visionaries. You wanted to fix the world. I wanted to burn it into something better. You walked away. I walked deeper."

Aldrin looked away. But she gently took his chin, redirecting his gaze.

"Peas in a pod," she said. "You and I. We just ended up planting ourselves in different gardens."

There was silence.

Then her smile returned — too soft, too calm.

"Don't worry, Aldrin. I didn't come to make a scene."

"Not tonight, at least."

She let her hand drop, and turned to leave — her veil trailing like fog behind her.

"We'll see each other soon," she said, not looking back. "After all, some ghosts don't haunt. They claim."

And with that, Mara disappeared through the same doors she had entered, her eight guards parting like water around her.

Aldrin exhaled, barely aware he'd been holding his breath.

Isabella was the first to speak.

"You told me she was dead."

Her voice was calm, but it carried the weight of betrayal wrapped in confusion.

"She was," Aldrin answered, barely audible.

Marek let out a low whistle.

"No kiss and your dead ex shows up. We really are cursed."

Ainsworth's voice was flat.

"She's not done. Not even close."

Aldrin's eyes scanned the room.

For Iris.

But she was gone.

Vanished in the moment the past had walked in wearing white.

And with that, the gala closed — not in celebration, not in applause — but in the quiet tremor of something ancient awakening.

Something that had once loved Aldrin.

And now, perhaps, had returned to destroy him.