It began with a letter.
No phone call. No text. Just a handwritten note slipped under Arga Bridgman's office door late one evening.
You can wear your mask with her. But you can't wear it with me. Meet me. Tonight. The Belmont Hotel, Suite 1407.
There was no signature. There didn't need to be one. The elegant script was unmistakable.
Arga held the letter in his hands long after his staff had left. The city's lights glittered beyond his office window, yet his chest felt hollow, suffocating.
He should burn it. Ignore it. Stay beside Jennifer and the safety of their strategy.
But his hands trembled as he folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
Because Sharon had called.
And Arga Bridgman had never been able to resist Sharon Countbell.
***
Suite 1407 smelled faintly of jasmine and smoke when Arga stepped inside.
Sharon was already there, draped across the velvet chaise as if she had been waiting all her life for him to arrive. She wore black silk, the neckline plunging dangerously, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a dark river.
"Arga," she purred, rising with liquid grace. "You came."
Arga closed the door behind him, his heart hammering. "This is reckless."
Sharon's smile curved like a blade. "Since when did you care about recklessness? You were never afraid of fire before."
Her words slithered under his skin, pulling at something raw and familiar.
"Jennifer will wonder where I am," he said, though the protest sounded weak even to his own ears.
Sharon stepped closer, her perfume enveloping him. "Jennifer," she repeated, the name dripping with disdain. "A child playing at being a queen. Do you really think she can hold you the way I do? That she can understand the hunger inside you?"
Arga swallowed hard, every nerve on edge.
"You humiliated me," he said, his voice low, trembling. "You made me a joke."
Sharon tilted her head, her eyes glittering. "And yet… here you are."
***
They circled each other in silence for a moment, predator and prey, though it was unclear who was which.
Finally, Sharon reached out, her fingertips brushing the lapel of his jacket. "You can pretend all you like," she whispered. "Pretend you've moved on. Pretend she's enough. But every time you see me, you remember."
Arga caught her wrist, holding it tightly. "Stop," he hissed.
But Sharon only smiled, leaning in so close her lips nearly grazed his ear. "You belong to me, Arga. You always have. You always will."
The words dug into him like hooks. And though he pushed her hand away, the echo of her touch lingered.
***
Later, as they sat across from one another, Sharon poured two glasses of wine. Her movements were unhurried, theatrical, as though she were performing for an audience only she could see.
"You think this little play with Jennifer will last?" she asked casually, handing him a glass. "You think society will continue to swoon when the cracks begin to show?"
Arga clenched his jaw. "There are no cracks."
Her laughter was soft, mocking. "There are always cracks. And I know exactly where to press until the whole façade collapses."
Arga's throat tightened. "What do you want, Sharon?"
She leaned back, swirling her wine. "What I've always wanted. Control. The stage. And you."
Arga shook his head. "You don't love me. You love breaking me."
Her smile sharpened. "Maybe. But breaking you is the only way to keep you."
***
Hours slipped by in that suite. Sharon spoke in half-truths, weaving memories and venom together, reminding Arga of the intensity they once shared.
She reminded him of the boy he had been, the cruel words he had thrown at her, and how fate had twisted them together now—two enemies locked in a dance neither could escape.
"You can't erase me with her," Sharon said, her voice softer now, dangerously tender. "I'm in your blood, Arga. You'll see me in every mirror. Hear me in every silence. No matter how tightly she clings, she will always be second to me."
Arga's chest ached. He wanted to deny it, to rise, to leave. But he remained seated, his hands trembling around his glass.
Because she was right. And he hated her for it. Hated himself more.
***
It was nearly dawn when Arga finally left the suite.
Sharon walked him to the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She touched his cheek lightly, a ghost of a caress.
"Run back to your little fiancée," she whispered. "Smile for the cameras. Play your part. But remember this, Arga—when the lights go out, it's me you'll think of."
Arga closed his eyes, torn between rage and desire. Then he pulled away, opening the door.
"Stay out of my life," he said hoarsely.
But Sharon only smiled, watching him go.
Because she knew he would come back.
***
When the door closed, Sharon poured herself another glass of wine and sank into the chaise.
She had seen the cracks. The flicker in his eyes, the hesitation in his voice, the way his hands trembled when she touched him.
Jennifer might have his public face, his practiced smiles, his rehearsed devotion.
But Sharon had his weakness.
And that was far more dangerous.
***
Epilogue – The Ghost in His Chest
Back in his penthouse, Arga sat alone in the dark, his head in his hands. Jennifer slept in the guest room down the hall, unaware he had been gone.
The city outside was quiet, but inside his chest, Sharon's words echoed like a curse.
You belong to me.
He pressed his fists to his temples, trying to silence her voice. But the more he fought, the louder it became.
And for the first time since the engagement began, Arga realized with horror that Sharon was right.
Because in the deepest corner of his heart, where no cameras could reach—she was still there.
Watching. Waiting.
And smiling.