Chapter 8 - The Ghost on the Ballroom Stage
Every single lawyer, banker, and family member in the room froze.
Walking down the center aisle, dressed in an immaculate, tailored ivory silk power suit, radiating sovereign, untouchable elegance, was myself.
My dark hair was styled with razor precision, my skin glowing with radiant health, and my heels clicking against the polished hardwood with the cadence of an executioner.
Flanking me were my father Arthur Sterling, my brother Gabriel, and six armed Federal Marshals.
Flynn’s gold pen snapped in half between his fingers.
His jaw dropped so violently he nearly bit his own tongue. His face turned the color of curdled milk as he scrambled out of his chair, knocking his water glass onto the mahogany table.
"E... Elena...?!" Flynn shrieked, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak. "You... you drowned! The Coast Guard confirmed you were lost at sea!"
"I didn't drown, Flynn," I said, my voice carrying effortless, diamond-grade authority across the room. "The Caribbean waters rejected your poison."
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Fiona gasped, clutching her pearl necklace, hyperventilating in sheer terror: "It's a ghost! Arthur, what is this?!"
"This is your reckoning, Fiona," Arthur Sterling announced, stepping to the presentation podium.
