Chapter Three: Ghosts of the Past
1151 Words
The hospital smelled of sterile bleach and quiet despair.
Soft beeps of machines filled the dimly lit room where Luna Aldridge lay, her small body fragile against the sea of white sheets.
Roman stood by the glass window, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest—too shallow. Too weak.
His fingers curled into fists. They were losing her.
Behind him, the Aldridge family—New York’s wealthiest, most influential bloodline—stood powerless.
Their resources meant nothing when they couldn’t find the right donor.
Roman’s stepmother, Livia’s mother, was pacing the floor in her designer heels, her face pale despite the expensive makeup. His father sat in the corner, his usual iron-willed composure shattered.
Darcy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, lips pressed into a hard line. The only one who had even dared to make the call.
They had all lost hope.
Because how could they not?
They had done nothing to deserve Livia’s return.
Roman never thought she’d come back.
He closed his eyes.
And suddenly—he was seventeen again.
---
Flashback: A Night That Shouldn’t Have Happened
The Aldridge mansion was silent when he stumbled through the front door.
Roman was drunk.
Not just tipsy—blackout, the-world-spinning, limbs-heavy, burning-up drunk.
His head pounded as he pushed into the darkened hallway, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke clinging to his skin.
He had spent the night partying at a club, reveling in the usual distractions—women, drinks, loud music that numbed the ever-growing frustration of sharing a house with strangers.
Because that’s what Livia and her mother had been.
Intruders.
His father’s new wife had moved in too soon. And with her came Livia—a girl with too much sharpness in her eyes and a mouth that never bowed in submission.
She was composed in a way that was unsettling, like she had learned early on to hide every emotion behind a mask.
Roman hated her for it.
Or at least—he thought he did.
The moment he reached the grand staircase, he noticed the faint glow of light from the study.
And then he heard a sound.
A soft hiccup.
Roman frowned. Who the hell was drinking in his father’s study?
He pushed the door open and—
Livia.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, an empty whiskey bottle in her lap.
Her long dark hair was loose, tumbling over her bare shoulders, and her silk slip dress clung to her slender frame.
Her cheeks were flushed.
And she was drunk.
Roman’s drunken haze lifted—just a little.
“The f**k are you doing?” His voice was hoarse.
Livia blinked up at him, a slow, lazy smirk curving her lips. “Enjoying fine whiskey, obviously.”
Roman’s eyes darted to the bottle in her lap.
Aged Macallan. His father’s favorite. Worth a fortune.
His gaze snapped back to hers. “You’re dead if he finds out.”
Livia sighed dramatically, twirling the empty bottle in her hands. “Relax. I filled it with water.”
Roman stared.
Then laughed.
He couldn’t help it.
Here was Livia Sinclair—the girl who always acted like she had everything under control—completely reckless.
It was the first time he had ever seen her unravel.
Roman shut the door behind him, staggering closer. “So, what? You wanted to piss off your mother?”
Livia snorted. “Like she cares.”
There was something in her voice. Something broken.
Roman wasn’t thinking when he dropped to the floor beside her, grabbing the bottle and turning it upside down. Not a single drop left.
He smirked. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
Livia hummed, her head lolling back against the bookcase. “You should talk.”
Silence stretched between them.
A charged, unspoken thing.
Roman could smell the whiskey on her breath, the sweet vanilla scent of her perfume mixed with the rebellion that clung to her skin.
And maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe it was the way the house was so quiet.
Maybe it was the fact that they were never supposed to be in the same orbit.
But suddenly—Livia was too close.
Her lips barely parted, her gaze locked onto his in a way that burned.
And then—
He kissed her.
Or maybe she kissed him.
He never knew which of them broke first.
But his hands were in her hair, and hers were clutching his shirt, and the world was spinning, and their lips moved in a way that was messy, desperate, all-consuming.
She tasted like whiskey and something he could never name.
He had her pinned against the bookcase, his hand sliding up her thigh, heat pooling low in his stomach—
He could feel her heart racing, the way her breath hitched as his fingers teased the hem of her dress.
A dangerous game.
A forbidden line neither of them should have crossed.
Livia’s nails scraped against the back of his neck, her body molding against his like she was made for him—
Then—
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!”
His father’s voice boomed through the room.
Roman ripped away from Livia, his breath ragged, his head still fogged with alcohol and adrenaline.
Livia’s mother stood behind his father, her face stricken.
His father’s rage filled every inch of the study. Disgust. Fury. Loathing.
And then his eyes landed on Livia.
“You little slut.”
The words hit the air like a gunshot.
Roman’s stomach plummeted.
But Livia—Livia didn’t even flinch.
She just stood there, her chin lifting, her expression blank.
Unbothered.
Unmoved.
Like she had expected it.
His father turned to her mother. “Get her out of my house.”
Roman opened his mouth—but he said nothing.
He did nothing.
And the next morning, Livia was gone.
---
Present Day: The Hospital
Roman’s head snapped up.
His father’s voice from that night was still ringing in his skull.
You little slut.
His chest tightened.
He had never seen her again.
Never reached out.
Never apologized.
And yet—
Here she was.
Livia Sinclair, running into the hospital, gasping for breath.
Every head in the waiting room turned.
Her dark hair was slightly disheveled, her fitted trench coat unbuttoned as she pushed past the stunned nurses.
She hadn’t changed.
Still composed. Still breathtaking.
Except for the way her eyes—the same ones that had once looked at him like he was the worst thing that had ever happened to her—locked onto them all, sharp as a dagger.
Roman’s heart slammed against his ribs.
She wasn’t supposed to come.
She wasn’t supposed to care.
But she was here.
And when she finally spoke, her voice was unshaken.
“Sorry, my flight was late.”
And just like that—Livia Sinclair was back.
- Writer
