Morning light broke like glass through Drew's curtains.
He hadn't slept. The image of the shadow in the opposite building replayed in his head—silent, watching, deliberate. And the mask that had vanished from his table still haunted him.
He poured coffee he didn't drink and stared at the empty space where the mask had been.
Someone had been here.
Or… someone wanted him to think they had.
His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
"You're looking for what's already found you."
No name. No emoji. Nothing else.
He froze, rereading it, the words etching themselves into his pulse. He typed a reply, deleted it, then tossed the phone onto the counter.
Enough.
He needed answers—and there was only one name his mind kept circling back to, one he'd buried in the quiet corners of his heart.
Aria.
His ex-wife. The only person who'd ever gotten under his skin and stayed there.
It had been two years since the divorce, one year since the accident. Her car had exploded off the coastal highway, and though she'd lived, the news had said she was burned beyond recognition. She'd gone abroad for reconstructive surgery and never contacted him again.
He had tried to move on.
But last night's dancer—the way she moved, the curve of her jaw, that voice—
Something in him whispered Aria.
He told himself it was impossible.
But impossibility didn't explain the perfume. Or the mask. Or the message.
He called Jax.
"Tell me something," Drew said when his friend answered. "Do you still have contacts at St. Claire Medical?"
Jax groaned. "It's eight in the morning. What for?"
"Just answer."
"Yeah, why?"
"I need the records of a patient from two years ago. Aria Lancaster."
There was a pause. "You mean—your ex-wife? What for?"
"Because something isn't adding up."
Jax's voice dropped. "Drew, you went through hell after that accident. Don't start—"
"Just do it."
Jax sighed. "Fine. But if this is about some dream you had—"
"It's not."
Drew hung up before Jax could argue.
Hours later, Drew sat in his car outside the hospital where Aria had been treated before leaving the country. The building loomed gray and indifferent, like it had forgotten everything that happened inside.
He went in anyway.
At the reception desk, a nurse looked up. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for information on a former patient," Drew said. "Aria Lancaster. Accident case, two years ago."
The nurse's polite smile faltered. "I'm sorry, sir, but medical records are confidential."
"I know. I'm her husband."
"Ex-husband, according to the file."
That stopped him cold. "So you do have the file."
She hesitated, lowering her voice. "Mr. Lancaster… the file was sealed six months after her discharge. I'm not authorized to open it."
"Who sealed it?"
"I can't say."
"Can't, or won't?"
She looked past him, nervous. "You should go, sir."
He leaned closer, lowering his tone. "Please. I need to know if she's alive."
The nurse swallowed hard. "She was transferred overseas under a new identity. That's all I can tell you."
"A new identity?"
"Yes. And whoever arranged it… they had power. Real power."
Drew's pulse thudded in his ears. "Where was she sent?"
But before the nurse could answer, someone appeared behind her—a man in a gray suit, clipboard in hand. "Is there a problem here?"
The nurse straightened immediately. "No, Doctor. Mr. Lancaster was just leaving."
The doctor's expression was unreadable. "Good. We like to keep our records private, Mr. Lancaster. For everyone's safety."
That tone—calm, deliberate—sent a chill down Drew's spine. He left before he said something reckless.
Outside, the wind cut sharp against his face. He got into his car, started the engine, and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.
A new identity.
A sealed file.
A transfer arranged by someone powerful.
If Aria was alive, why hide? And why now—after all this time—was she toying with him?
His phone vibrated again. Another message from the same number:
"You shouldn't have gone there."
He stared at the screen. His chest tightened.
He didn't reply.
He drove back to his penthouse, but as soon as he stepped out of the elevator, the faint scent of roses hit him again. Stronger this time.
He followed it into the living room—and froze.
On his table, where the mask had vanished, lay a small velvet box.
He opened it slowly. Inside was a single ring—his wedding band. The one he'd thrown into the ocean the day of the divorce.
His breath caught.
It was impossible.
The box also held a folded note:
"Do you still wear the past, Drew?"
No signature. Just a tiny red feather drawn beneath the words.
He sank into the sofa, heart pounding. Every rational thought warred with something deeper, something raw.
He should've called security, or the police. But he didn't. Instead, he reached for the ring, turned it in his fingers, and felt something engraved inside.
Not the original inscription. Something new.
"Some fires don't kill. They rebirth."
Drew's blood went cold.
He stood abruptly, pacing. Was this some elaborate revenge? Was Aria alive, changed, and testing him? Or was someone using her memory to break him apart?
He didn't know which answer scared him more.
That night, unable to rest, Drew returned to the balcony with the ring in hand. The city stretched below—alive, glittering, unaware.
His phone buzzed again. A third message.
"If you want the truth, meet me where it ended."
He stared at the words. He knew exactly what that meant.
The cliffs.
The place of the accident.
He hesitated, every instinct telling him to stop. But his heart had already decided.
He grabbed his keys and coat and drove.
The road to the cliffs was empty, the sea restless under the moon. He parked near the barrier, the smell of salt and burned rubber still lingering in his mind.
He stepped out, wind whipping at his coat. The spot where her car had gone over was marked by a faint scorch on the guardrail—time hadn't erased it.
He walked closer, the sound of waves crashing below.
Then he saw it.
A figure standing near the edge—tall, feminine, hair lifting in the wind. She turned slightly, enough for him to see the faint gleam of silver across her face.
A mask.
His pulse thundered. "Aria?"
The figure didn't move.
"Is it you?" His voice broke against the wind.
She took a slow step toward him, light glinting off her sleeve. And though her face was mostly hidden, her voice carried clearly, soft and trembling:
"Some ghosts don't stay buried, Drew."
Then headlights flashed behind him—a car approaching fast. He turned for only a second—
—and when he looked back, the figure was gone.
Only the mask remained, lying in the dirt at the cliff's edge, a red feather tucked beneath it.
The same scent—roses and smoke—drifted through the cold night air.