Chapter 7
646words
Tonight, a storm brewed in the beast's belly.
As I entered on Damon's arm, the air reeked not just of expensive perfume but of something putrid festering beneath the gilded surface.
Something was off.
Though guests still clinked glasses and made small talk, their eyes darted nervously, voices dropping to whispers.
"Did you see those tabloid headlines that just broke...?"
"Sterling Group accused of billions in tax fraud... offshore money laundering too..."
"Christ, look at that signature—it's clearly Marcus's..."
Whispers buzzed like flies on carrion.
I allowed myself a slight smile.
My afternoon email had worked even better than I'd hoped.
Not even New York's finest PR team could bury this scandal.
Damon clearly sensed the tension.
He frowned, about to summon his assistant, when a sharp sound cut through the hall.
"Crash!"
A wine glass shattered on marble.
Marcus Sterling stood before the fireplace, face ashen, chest heaving.
Several family members huddled around his phone, faces frozen in horror.
"It's fake! All of it—fake!"
Marcus shouted hysterically, his "family guardian" composure utterly shattered.
"Someone's framing me! Someone wants to destroy me! Damon! Where's Damon?!"
He spun around like a cornered animal, eyes wild and vicious.
"Ignore him."
Damon glanced coldly in that direction, gripping my hand as I tried to pull away. "If it's true, I'll personally walk him to prison."
His voice was ice and steel.
But I knew that wasn't enough.
Tax crimes would only put him behind bars, not make him pay with his life.
I needed to trigger his deepest fear.
"Damon."
I slipped from his grasp, nodding toward the black Steinway in the corner.
"Those flowers look lovely. I'll go admire them."
Without waiting for his response, I gathered my funeral-black velvet gown and walked directly to the piano.
Three years ago, Elena had been a fixture here.
At every family dinner, she'd sit at this bench and play.
And Marcus, wearing his benevolent patriarch mask, would call her "the angel of the Sterling family."
I sat down, fingers ghosting over the cold keys.
I took a deep breath.
And pressed down.
Ding—dong—ding—dong—
Eerie, disjointed notes flooded the hall.
A twisted variation of "Mother Goose Rhymes."
A week before the fire, I'd played this piece to tease Marcus's dog.
Marcus had joked then: "That tune gives me the creeps—sounds like a funeral march."
And now, on this scandal-ridden night of racing hearts, it truly became a summoning bell for the dead.
The buzzing hall fell suddenly silent.
All eyes locked on me.
I straightened my spine into Elena's signature posture, making the "funeral march" grow increasingly frantic and sharp.
I felt a gaze burning into my back.
Pure, undiluted terror.
"No... impossible..."
I turned my head and, through the crowd, locked eyes with Marcus.
Then I gave him Elena's signature smile.
Rigid.
Ice-cold.
Like a porcelain doll crawling from a grave.
"Ahhh——!!!"
Marcus erupted into a piercing scream.
He staggered backward as if seeing a ghost, crashing into the champagne tower.
"Crash——"
Hundreds of crystal glasses collapsed in a thunderous cascade, shards flying, champagne flooding the floor.
Like spilled blood.
"Ghost! It's a ghost!"
Marcus jabbed a finger at me, eyes bulging from their sockets.
He scrambled backward on all fours through broken glass.
"She's back! That bitch is back!"
"Stay away! Stay away from me!"
The entire room erupted in chaos.
Guests backed away in horror, bewildered by the respected elder's sudden madness.
"Marcus!" Damon strode forward, attempting to contain the situation.
But Marcus had completely unraveled. The double blow of tax exposure and "ghost haunting" had shattered his sanity.
He shoved away those trying to help, stumbling toward the garden terrace, muttering feverishly: "Fire... fire..."
The fish had taken the bait.
I immediately stopped playing, gathered my dress, and silently followed.
