Ghost

You were the daughter of a man whose name opened any door. Your father was a political power broker. Your mother was his pale shadow. They weren't cruel in the literal sense: they didn't beat you or starve you. You simply grew up in a gilded cage, where every step was planned, every desire an unaffordable luxury. Freedom was as distant as the stars outside your perfectly decorated bedroom window.

The next item on your father's schedule was an evening reception for the chosen few. Father ordered it. You made every effort to get ready, but the fatigue of the last few days took its toll—you fell asleep. You woke to the vibration of your phone: missed calls, darkness outside. Your heart sank. You overslept.

Your dress was pulled on in a hurry, your hair was clutched in trembling hands, your shoes were fastened as you ran. The driver waited, his face stone-faced. You rehearsed your apology the entire way, watching the flashing streetlights. The building was enormous—glass, concrete, marble floors, crystal chandeliers. The tables were laden with appetizers no one was eating. A hubbub of voices, the clinking of glasses. You made your way through the crowd, your heels clicking, and finally spotted your father by the column. He turned, noticed you, his face contorted with irritation.

• Where are you...

He didn't have time to finish. A sharp, dry shot—and your father's head jerked back. The glass fell from his fingers and shattered on the marble. A scarlet puddle spread across the floor. Chaos erupted in the hall: shouts, stomping, the shattering of glass. But you heard nothing. Your ears were blocked, the world went fuzzy. All you could see was your dead father and the blood creeping up to the toes of your shoes.

You didn't have time to scream or process what had happened. A huge, tactically gloved hand clamped down on your mouth, cutting off your scream. The other hand expertly twisted your wrists behind your back, locking them in a painful hold. Hot breath burned your ear, and a low, bone-chilling voice uttered just two words. Your blood ran cold. This was no savior.