Aidan Rooke sat in the dim glow of his computer screen, headphones on, a pen tapping restlessly against his thigh. The yearbook photo of Liliana Vale stared back at him. A soft, hopeful smile. A girl untouched by blood or fire.
But that girl no longer existed.
He'd spent the last four hours tracing any digital remnant of her life—and found almost nothing. It was as if someone had systematically wiped her records. No social media. No medical files. Even her high school transcript ended abruptly in the middle of her senior year. Only one thing stood out: a death certificate for a Mira Vale, listed as her legal guardian, expired seven years ago from "undisclosed medical complications."
Cause of death redacted.
Why redact the death of a poor girl in a public hospital?
He had seen this before. Not in fairy tales. In cover-ups.
Aidan grabbed his phone and called his contact at the city archive.
"Yeah?" came the groggy voice on the other end.
"I need files on Mira Vale," Aidan said, eyes locked on the image of Selene in red. "All of them. Unfiltered. Whatever got scrubbed. There's a trail here, and someone paid to have it buried."
"You offering your firstborn?"
"Just send the files."
He hung up and opened a new tab.
Search: Victor Harrow + South American contracts + orchid trade
He wasn't stupid. Harrow's dealings with Colombia were widely known, but Aidan wasn't interested in legal exports. He was digging for the black-market whispers: off-the-record shipments, untraceable lab samples, pharmaceuticals never approved for trials.
And that's when he found it.
An archived exposé from five years ago—quickly retracted, buried by lawsuits, written by a junior journalist who later left the country.
Title: "The Orchid Project: Biotech, Bribes, and Broken Promises"
The article detailed an unregulated medical trial funded by a Harrow subsidiary—offering miracle cures for terminal patients in exchange for silence and signatures. One of the clinics had burned to the ground weeks before the article was pulled. All records lost. All patients presumed dead.
Aidan's blood ran cold.
"She died alone. In a place men like you build."
Selene's words at the gala now echoed with terrifying clarity. This wasn't just a seductress playing games with broken hearts.
This was vengeance.
And she was far from done.
Aidan clicked back to the gala surveillance image. He zoomed in. Enhanced. There, reflected faintly in a wine glass behind Victor and Selene—a man watching from the shadows. Dark suit. No drink. No expression.
Not part of the party.
Aidan leaned in. "Who the hell are you?"
He had a new name to find.
Because something told him Selene wasn't the only ghost in the room that night.