Secrets and Broken Hearts

Chapter 9: The Ghost from the Past

The final heavy bass note of the encore vibrated along the stadium floor, followed by an explosion of deafening cheers and a blinding downpour of white confetti. I kept my posture rigid, my head held high, until I finally stepped past the heavy velvet curtain and out of the public eye.

The moment the backstage doors slammed shut, cutting off the roar of the crowd, my iron-clad composure fractured.

I grabbed my garment bag containing my outfit and hurried toward my private dressing room, slamming the door behind me and leaning heavily against the locked wood. My breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. I pressed both palms against the cool surface of the mirror, staring at my own reflection as my long, thick ash-blonde hair tangled wildly around my shoulders.

I saw him.

Even now, trapped inside the quiet sanctuary of my dressing room, the phantom heat of his crimson gaze seemed to burn right through me. It wasn't possible. Five years of burying the past, five years of carving out a ruthless empire where I answered to no one, and he just waltzed into the front row like a ghost haunting the living.

Frustration and a deep, humiliating betrayal clawed at my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing a hand flat against my chest. Beneath my ribs, my heart was hammering a furious, betraying rhythm. Even after everything he had put me through—after the games, the abandonment, and the agonizing heartbreak—my pulse still leaped for him. The ancient, unexplainable tether binding us together pulsed beneath my skin like a living curse, mocking my pride. I hated it. I hated him for still having this invisible grip on me.

Suddenly, the glass of the mirror warped and shimmered, blurring into a sudden, blinding flash of light.

A sharp, ragged gasp tore from my lips as the future violently forced its way into my mind. In the jagged, hyper-vivid vision, I wasn't standing alone in the dressing room. I was pressed hard against a wall, caged by the solid warmth of Nicholas's body. His large, possessive hands gripped my waist over my form-fitting purple leather pants, his burning touch searing right through the sleek fabric as my own fingers tangled fiercely, desperately into his dark hair, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to him as our lips met in a ravenous, all-consuming kiss. The sheer intensity of the passion nearly suffocated me, wrapped in an embrace so heavy and demanding it felt impossible to escape. Every stroke of his lips and tongue was soaked in a raw hunger, igniting a wild, electric ache deep between my thighs. His teeth grazed sharply against my lower lip, drawing a soft, breathless moan from my throat that he swallowed whole, his fingers digging deeper into my hips while my hands gripped his hair tighter, both of us lost to a frantic, intoxicating need.

The vision vanished just as quickly as it had struck. My knees buckled beneath me, and I collapsed hard onto the cold floor, breathless and dizzy.

And then, the most terrifying part hit me: even after the vision faded, I could still feel it. The ghost of his mouth lingered on mine, burning hot and impossible to shake, sending a traitorous shiver straight through my veins.

No. No, this cannot happen.

I pressed my trembling fingertips against my lips, choking back a sob of pure anger. Not after everything he did to me.

This was precisely why I avoided looking into the future. Ever since the day I discovered I was a witch, the terrifying gift of prophecy had awakened within me. And with each passing year, as my powers grew stronger and more uncontrollable, these uninvited glimpses of destiny seemed determined to tear down every wall I built.

I dragged myself up from the floor, shaking my head to clear the intoxicating ghost of that kiss and the heat flooding my veins. I didn't have time to fall apart. Stefan and the label executives were already expecting me at the exclusive, high-end lounge situated inside the luxury hotel across the city for the elite post-show VIP reception.

Gathering my things, I headed out to the waiting black SUV flanked by my private security team, who formed a tight, protective barrier around me against the lingering fans and flashing paparazzi. We drove through the glittering city streets straight to the hotel housing the lounge. Instead of walking through the chaotic main lobby, my guards escorted me through a private service entrance and straight up to my luxury hotel suite located on the second floor, directly above the venue, where I could prepare in absolute privacy.

Calming the wild, traitorous thrum in my chest, I assured myself that the lounge and hotel were hyper-exclusive—vetted by security, strictly invite-only, and completely shielded from uninvited ghosts. Nicholas couldn't possibly just waltz in there. At least for tonight, I was safe from him; he wouldn't be there.

Moving quickly inside the quiet suite, I stripped off the sleek black leather stage outfit and let the clothes pool at my feet. I pulled the breathtaking, blood-red corset dress from my garment bag and slipped it on. The structured, bone-tight bodice cinched my waist to perfection, while the neckline blazed with intricate, hand-set crimson crystals that caught the light like drops of fresh fire. The fabric cascaded down to the floor in a long, dramatic sweep, split by a dangerously high slit on the side that exposed just enough skin with every step. I slid my feet into matching deep red stiletto heels, adding the final touch of lethal elegance.

I checked my reflection in the suite's grand mirror one last time. The terrified girl from the burning cottage was completely gone, locked away beneath layers of silk, crystals, and stone-cold ambition.

I smoothed down the front of my dress, adjusted my posture, and turned toward the door, ready to take the private interior staircase down to the lounge.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany door of my suite burst open without so much as a warning knock.

Cathy rushed in, breathless and wide-eyed, her professional composure entirely shattered. She locked the door behind her with a frantic click before spinning around to face me, wringing her hands together in sheer panic.

"Ana, we have a massive problem," Cathy blurted out, her voice trembling slightly. "Nicholas is downstairs. He’s asking for you—no, he’s demanding you. He told security that if you don't come down to speak with him within the next five minutes, he’s coming up here himself."

She swallowed hard, her eyes darting nervously towards the door as if expecting him to materialize through the wood. "The guards tried to stop him, but . . . well, they couldn't even touch him. I managed to stop Stefan from calling the police and making a scene, and I told Nicholas you'd talk to him. Are you ready for this?"

I stood frozen in the center of the suite, the blood draining from my face before rushing back in a hot, furious wave.

No.

I had convinced myself just minutes ago that I was safe here, that tonight would pass without him crossing my path again. The shock of seeing him in the front row, followed by that agonizing, hyper-vivid premonition of his kiss, had already pushed my mental defenses to their absolute breaking point. I had hoped—prayed—that I wouldn't have to deal with him tonight of all nights.

A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room as the reality of it crashed down on me. But slowly, the panic began to curdle into something much darker, much sharper: cold, unyielding resignation.

Well, that day had to come eventually.

There was no running from this. The ancient tether burning beneath my skin wouldn't allow it, and neither would he.

I let out a slow, steady breath, turning my back to Cathy. Facing the grand vanity mirror, I raised my hand and gave a sharp, imperceptible flick of my index finger. Across the room, a silver-plated hairbrush lifted off the marble counter, gliding smoothly through the air before landing precisely in my palm.

With measured, deliberate strokes, I pulled the brush through my thick ash-blonde hair, smoothing out every stray wave until it fell like a gleaming liquid cloak down my back. Then, with a soft clatter, I placed the brush back down on the table.

I met my own gaze in the glass—the red crystals of my corset dress catching the dim luxury lighting, my expression carved from pure ice.

I turned around, lifting my chin with absolute, lethal authority.

"I'm ready," I said, my voice steady and cold as steel.