LATIFA, HIS EX-WIFE'S GHOST

Episode12 (BRUTAL LATIFA)

ZACKS POV

The boardroom of my family's Empire was alive with tension. Suits moved uncomfortably in leather chairs, eyes darting to the woman at the table's head: Latifa Del Mona.

She reclined like a queen on her throne. Blonde waves tumbled over her tailored navy dress, her hard blue eyes raking the room with icy calm. A hushed whisper floated between the junior executives: "She looks like Joyce..."

My heartbeat was unseizing and I sat forward. Hands tightly entwined. The resemblance was scary, bringing alive memories I had strived to bury. Fought to let go, just to be engaged to Emily.

It must be a coincidence

But those words refused to bulge. Again.

Obviously, lost makes you see your deceased in strangers face. But this particular one refuses to disappear, despite how hard I try.

And then those words came. Again.

"We got a call from some unknown person. Reran the DNA. It's not her."

Those words seeped back into my mind like venom in my blood.

I'd buried a body. I'd cried beside that coffin. I'd stood over that grave three years, saying sorry to the wind. But if that wasn't Joyce… then where the devil is she?

And why does every time Latifa breathe feel like a whisper of the past?

My gut wrenched, as it did when Joyce surprised me. Could it be? Is Joyce still alive? Could she be sitting beside me, in disguise, behind another name, another face?

I berated myself it was out of the question; but my eyes would not comply. They continued stuck on her, watching her dish up orders like coffee. I ought to have been furious. She'd burst in and took over. Giving commands. But I wasn't angry.

I was infatuated.

Latifa gave a forced smile. "I've reviewed the books. Dutchman's overseas allies in Milan and Macau are draining you dry. We're severing relationships with them today."

Gasps. Protests.

I saw the tremble in one of the executives' hands as he held his pen as If it was his life.

"But… Miss Del Mona, those are Lady Joan's longstanding alliances!" stuttered one executive.

"Yes," Latifa said matter-of-factly. "Which is why they've been cooking your books with impunity all these years. That ends today."

Lady Joan. My mother.

She's manipulated from behind the scenes for years. She wouldn't take this lying down.

Latifa stood, her very presence commanding. “This empire has officially made me a sole executive member. In other words, the CEO. Embrace the changes, or you can move on somewhere else.”. The words sliced the air like a sword tangled up in a challenge, deeply cutting through the crowd. Her heels clipped-clapped on the marble floors, echoing the room with rage and power. A tool for war.

This was war.

And I… I had no idea whose side I was on anymore.

"You just arrived… and you're already threatening?" another executive sneered at her.

She stood there, poised like a knife, that smile slicing through the fear building in the room. I wanted to intervene, to regain control, but something within me was paralysed.

Was it awe? Terror? Or something worse still; recognition?

I had seen that expression. That unwavering assurance. I'd only ever witnessed it once before; on Joyce, the day she cutted off a chunk of a foreign dignitary for disrespecting our foundation efforts.

But Joyce wasn't present.

Wasn't she?

"Like I said, if you can't adapt to change, you're free to go."

The murmurs turned into protests.

"I will go……and watch how you run this company without us," the senior executive sneered, striding out. His strides were like thunder.

My heart turned over.

Fear.

The Dutchman's Empire was shattering before our eyes.

"Sir….." I began.

"Let him go, Mr. Zack," she cut in, gentle but adamant. "You have to believe in me here." She radiated a sparkling smile. And for Pete's sake, it stilled someplace inside of me. Tamed the hysteria.

I watched the boardroom empty out, each door closure drive a coffin nail into our empire. I should have been falling apart; hell, I was. But underneath the terror, something infinitely worse.

Doubt.

Doubt in myself. My mother. In all that I thought was sure.

And worse, a cold faith in the woman who lit the match.

Who was she? Savior? Swindle?

Or the ghost of someone I never actually knew?

I trusted her. Martias suggested I should.

God have mercy on me, I relied on her.

She was right, Dutchmen had to be cleaned. But my mother had pushed me at every turn. Now that the same changes were on the part of a stranger? She would fight back. I know.

Better, I muttered to myself, to let the stranger do what I could not.

A stranger… who felt uncomfortably familiar.

That evening, Latifa watched the city lights shine through my floor-to-ceiling window. 8:30 p.m.

The investors' unexpected pullout had me on edge, and I found myself searching her expression for clues. But she turned, her smile screaming sincerity, “Zack, are you good?”, she said, an assertion rather than a query.

Declaring.

I flinched.

How could she remain so calm when my entire inheritance was disappearing into nothing?

But I nodded and swallowed the storm inside. I did not wish for her to catch sight of the cracks. She already seemed to have all the aces.

Her eyes were boring into me. I squirmed in my seat. She called a couple of numbers, her voice rough and authoritative, and for some reason, I was clinging to it like a rope.

She got off the phone and turned to face me. "Let's take a break. Would you like a drink?"

A drink? Now?

I should have said no. I should have said a million things. But I nodded.

We sat on my office couch, drinks in our hands. She didn't relax. She never did. She owned the room without even trying.

We drank, her eyes never leaving mine. Studying me. Probing.

My body shook in a sharp shiver, “you believe in me, right Zack?”. Her voice is calm, but husky, giving me butterflies. I gulped down the wine.

My throat closed up. Did I?

My head yelled no. My heart, the stupid i***t pounded as if it remembered her.

I chased her face for something concrete. A giveaway. A breakdown. Something.

But all I got was Joyce's eyes, gazing back at me through the face of a stranger.

And I detested how badly I desired them to be the same.

"Yes," I said.

A lie.

Or maybe not.

Hell, maybe I was already too gone.

Latifa's smile expanded, slow and deliberate. "Good," she said. "Because we're just beginning."

A jolt of fear coursed through my veins. I had no concept of what she wanted. I didn't even know who she was.

But I was caught up.

Trapped.

Entwined.

Slipping.

I sat back. "Latifa… suppose Lady Joan commands you to quit? Suppose the investors come back, calling for change?"

Her response was laughter; chilly and mocking.

She raised her glass. "A toast, Zack."

I hesitated.

Her smile wavered not.

"To our success, then," she said.

The shiny wine glass kissed, giving a tiny chime through the room. “I can never be defeated unless I allow that. No one can send me packing. Including you. And as for the investors, we're replacing them tomorrow."

My jaw dropped.

"Tomorrow? You're considering one hundred and fifty investors. That's impossible….."

She laughed again. Calm. Soothing.

"Relax, Zack. When you show up tomorrow, you'll be introduced to the new investors. Trust me."

Trust.

There's that word again

The word hung in the air, and I felt my gaze lock onto hers like a target locked onto by a marksman. Fear and fascination wrestled within me, paralyzing me with uncertainty.

Joyce was fearless, but not quite like this.

And then there was the coup de grâce. My assistant briefed me on the resignations.

Fifty thousand employees. Scattered.

One hundred and fifty investors. Poof.

I was shaking.

She wasn't.

"I'll watch her moves and see what she's capable of," I muttered to myself. "Tomorrow noon… I'll apologize to all my investors, probably they will come back. I have to."

Ready to leave, I invited her to ride home.

“you take care of yourself Zack, I am fine”.

I was blatantly rejected.

Her own car pulled up. She got into it.

And I stood stock still at the curb, watching her pull away into the night.

What kind of woman was this?