Chapter 2: Her return
Two years. Two years stretched like an endless, empty road behind Viola. She was twenty-five now, but the girl who’d fled that apartment was gone. Burned away, leaving behind a harder, sharper version of herself. She had left without a word, without a trace. Just a note in her mind: I’m gone. Don’t look for me. She had built a new life, brick by painful brick, in a city far away. A city where no one knew the shattered Viola Chambers, the woman who had lost her future, then her heart.
She’d learned to stand tall again. Learned to sleep without nightmares waking her in a cold sweat. Or, at least, she’d learned to pretend. The ghost of that day, the image of Harris and Clara, that triumphant smirk on Clara’s face, it was always there, a tiny, burning coal deep inside her. It was a fuel, a bitter reminder of the betrayal.
The call came like a punch to the gut. Her mother’s voice, shaky and thin. “Viola… your father… he’s very sick.”
Sickness. Her father, the steady, strong rock of her life, sick? It didn’t seem real. She had cut ties, mostly. Brief calls to her mother, always avoiding any mention of home, of them. But this was different. Her father. The man who had taught how to stand up for herself, The man who had always looked at her with such pride.
Then came the second blow. “The company, honey,” her mother continued, her voice breaking. “He can’t run it. And you know… you’re the only one. You’re the heiress. You have to come back. For him. For us.”
Heiress. The word felt heavy, like a crown of thorns. She had always known this day would come. Being the only child, she was always meant to take over the family business. It was her destiny, locked in place from the moment she was born. But she had imagined it differently. She had imagined coming back with Harris by her side, a strong, happy wife, ready to build an empire with her loving husband. The bitter taste of irony filled her mouth.
Mixed emotions swirled inside her. Fear for her father. A deep, aching sadness for what used to be. And then, something else, something cold and sharp, began to push its way through the grief. A cold fire ignited in her veins.
Return. Go back to that city.
The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Not a shiver of fear, but of something far more dangerous.
Her first goal was clear: The company. Her father’s legacy. She would make it soar. Make it exceptional. Better than ever before. She would put every ounce of her new, hardened self into it. She would show everyone, especially those who thought she was broken beyond repair, that she was stronger than they could ever imagine. This wasn’t just about her father. It was about proving herself, to herself.
And then, there was the second goal. The one that made the corners of her lips curve into a slow, sinister smile. Revenge. Sweet, bitter revenge.
Harris. Clara.
They had taken everything from her. Her future as a mother. Her trust. Her belief in love. They had shattered her world and then, Clara, had dared to smirk. That smirk had haunted her dreams, fueled her waking hours, turned her pain into a weapon.
She looked at her reflection in the darkened window of her apartment. The soft curves of her face were sharper now. Her eyes, once warm and trusting, held a new, cold glint. Her posture was straighter, her movements more deliberate. The Viola who fled two years ago was a ghost. The woman looking back was a warrior.
“You think you won?” she whispered to the glass, her voice low and steady.
A chill wind seemed to pass through the room.
She started making plans. Booked her flight. Arranged for her apartment to be packed up. She would leave nothing behind from this new life, nothing that could tie her to the vulnerable girl she had once been. This return wasn’t about healing old wounds. It was about opening new ones, for others.
The flight felt endless. Each mile closer to her old life brought a fresh wave of memories, unbidden and unwelcome. The airport, the taxi ride through familiar streets. Every turn of the wheel felt like a twist of the knife in her gut. She saw landmarks, places she’d shared with Harris. The small park where they used to walk. The café where they had their first date. Each one a fresh stab of pain. But she didn’t let it show. She pushed the pain down, deep, deep down, and let the cold fire of her resolve burn brighter.
She spent the first few days back in the city making arrangements, not going straight home. She saw lawyers about the company. She absorbed every piece of information about her father’s illness and the company’s struggles from her mother over the phone, putting off the actual visit to the mansion, building her mental defenses.
One evening, after a grueling day of preparations, her mother spoke softly on the phone. “Harris… he’s tried to reach out. He calls sometimes. Asks about you.”
Viola’s grip tightened on the phone. “He can stop,” she said, her voice flat. “He means nothing to me.”
Her mother sighed, a sound heavy with unspoken sadness. “Clara… she’s still around, too. She works at that new art gallery downtown.”
Viola’s head snapped up. An art gallery. Downtown. Close. Too close. A small spark ignited in her eyes. It was a dangerous, thrilling spark.
“Does she?” Viola murmured, a soft, almost purring sound. A shadow of that sinister smile touched her lips. “Interesting.”
Her mother, lost in her own worries, didn’t notice the shift in Viola’s demeanor, the sudden stillness that settled over her, like a predator before a strike.
The next morning, Viola dressed carefully. Not for the mansion, not yet. This was a reconnaissance mission. A first, subtle strike. She looked at her phone, at the address her mother had given her. Clara Hayes. Art Gallery. Downtown. Yes.
She walked through the city streets, each step deliberate. The gallery appeared, sleek and modern. She could see Clara inside, through the wide glass front, arranging a sculpture, her back to the door.
Viola stopped. She pulled out her phone. A quick search. A message. A direct hit. Her fingers moved quickly, precisely. A message meant for Clara. A message that would make her blood run cold. A message that would announce the return of the ghost they thought they had buried.
She pressed send. A moment later, she saw Clara freeze inside the gallery, her head snapping to look at her phone.