Three years ago, Alex Langford—darling of Wall Street, devoted husband, and perfect father—vanished without a trace. No note. No body. Just a half-empty closet, a crimson stain beneath the nursery rug, and the distinct, echoing sense that something was terribly wrong.

Now, the Langford estate sits like a glass coffin on the hill—pristine, polished, and rotting from the inside.

Ava Langford still lives there.

Wrapped in designer silk and sprayed with perfume that never fades, Ava drifts through the house like a dream that refuses to end. She laughs too sweetly. Cries when no one’s watching. And smothers her only remaining lifeline—her 17-year-old son Adrien—with love so intense it feels like a noose.

She kisses his forehead six times before bed. Waits outside his school in a Rolls-Royce every day. Tucks him in. Feeds him dinner like he’s still a child.

Adrien—tall, cold, adored—is unraveling.
The school calls him brilliant. His mother calls him “my baby.”
He doesn’t call her anything at all.

But the glass is cracking.

Someone walks the halls at night. Doors open when no one touches them. There’s a man in the security footage—one with Alex’s eyes, but not his smile. A forgotten journal turns up in Adrien’s room, scrawled with ink and obsession. And beneath the floorboards, something is ticking.

Everyone says Alex left. But Ava remembers that night.
She remembers the knock at the glass.
The way the lights went out.
The man in love with her who should never have been let in.

I saw the Rolls-Royce before I saw her.


Black, polished, quiet as sin. It slid to the curb like a hearse, its mirrored windows throwing back the faces of everyone who turned to look. And of course, they looked.


"Is that his sister?""No way—his mom? Seriously?""She's so hot. She doesn't look old enough to drive."


I ground my teeth and sank deeper into my hoodie.


Then came her voice—light, sugary, too sweet for 3:30 PM. "Adrien! Baby! Oh, I missed you!"


I didn't even get a chance to react before she was out of the car and on me. Arms wrapped around my neck. Lip gloss smudged against my cheek. Nails painted blood-red tapping against my shoulder blades as she hugged me like I'd just come back from war.


"Did you eat?" she asked breathlessly. "Were the teachers nice? Did anyone bully you? Why didn't you text me back after lunch? You know I get worried, sweetheart, you know I—"


"Mom," I muttered, pulling away, "we're in public."


That only made her grin wider. Her eyes—huge and green and unblinking—shimmered in the sun like glass about to crack.


"And? Let them look. I'm proud to be your mommy. Look how tall you've gotten! You're almost as tall as Daddy now."


She said it like it was a good thing. Like Daddy was still something we said out loud.


I opened the car door and slid inside without another word.


She followed, humming under her breath, like nothing was wrong. Her perfume curled in the air—jasmine, vanilla, and the cloying sweetness of memories that wouldn't die.


Outside, people were still staring.But one stare felt different.Still. Heavy. Like a needle pressed to my spine.


And at the far edge of the school gates—behind the crowd, barely visible through the afternoon haze—stood a man in a gray coat.


He wasn't moving.He wasn't blinking.He wasn't… right.


His face was blurry, as if the light refused to land on it. His hands were in his pockets, but something about the way he stood—too still, too quiet—made my stomach coil. It wasn't a stare. It was a warning. A claim.


I didn't say anything. Not to her. Not yet.But as we pulled away, I glanced at the rearview mirror.


And even though the lot was empty—I swear I saw him smile.


Chapter 1 - The Rolls-Royce Ghost