Some ghosts don't need to speak to be remembered.
As the final notes of the music faded, Del Fierro approached her, an inch between them.
Suddenly, the entire ballroom grew cold.
Not because of the air conditioning.
Not because of the music.
But because of the man's body, almost touching hers.
The distance between them—as if deliberately erased— stole Celeste's breath. Her skin felt scorched by the heat of his hand, which had encircled her waist.
But it wasn't just heat she felt… it was fear.
Fear mixed with… confusion.
She froze.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't move.
It was as if a force was pulling her into a scene she didn't understand.
Her hands?
She didn't know where to put them.
One froze in the air. The other lightly brushed against the man's chest, but she quickly withdrew it.
What the hell is happening?
This isn't normal.
She's never felt this… off-balance.
Who is he? Why is he looking at her like that?
As if he knew things he shouldn't.
She swallowed, forcing down her nervousness.
She couldn't understand why an identity was forming in her mind… but she didn't want to name it.
She wasn't sure.
She wasn't ready.
Especially if what she was thinking was true.
But how could it be true?
Dominic was dead.
Five years.
And the man before her now… seemed as if he had never died.
Each beat of her heart seemed to echo the faint rhythm of the music.
But this wasn't a dance.
This wasn't a tango.
This was a test of her sanity.
Her eyes didn't know where to focus. On the collar of his coat? His eyebrows? His lips? Or those eyes… that seemed familiar.
Eyes that hadn't changed, even after all these years.
Eyes that had once cried with her in the rain.
Eyes that had once looked at her as if she were the only world.
"Celeste..." A whisper.
A name.
As if uttered by someone who shouldn't remember.
As if… she alone was allowed to utter it, in that way.
A slow, familiar ache pinched her heart—a wound she thought had long healed.
But it can't be Dominic! No…
She clutched the thin fabric of her own gown to keep from falling. Her body—cold, trembling, stiff.
The ballroom continued to spin around her, but to Celeste, only one thing seemed to move in the world—this shadow before her.
She wanted to retreat.
But her heels felt nailed to the floor. His presence seemed to bind the entire surroundings.
Then—suddenly, she heard him speak. "Strange, isn't it?"
His breath grazed her skin.
Cold. Whispered. Dangerous.
"No matter how far you run… some shadows find their way back," he said emotionlessly.
The final note of the tango fell, and the music finally faded into the air.
The ballroom returned to its normal rhythm, chattering guests, laughter, and the spotlights glittered as if nothing had happened.
But for Celeste, nothing had returned to normal.
She slowly backed away, gasping, her eyes wide with anger and fear.
Her red gown, once a symbol of her control, now seemed to signify danger.
Under the chandelier, the silence seemed to strip away her composure.
A wall.
A defense.
A five year illusion.
A ghost carrying memories.
A gaze that erased five years.
As if the corpse she had buried… had never been silent.
If he's a ghost… why does my heart want him back?
And at the very end, as the world finally started moving again…
a name flickered at the tip of her tongue.
A name she couldn't utter.
Ghosts don't knock. They just walk right in.
Celeste's hand trembled as she slowly withdrew her pulse from the grasp of someone who… shouldn't be alive.
One step back.
Then another.
Breathe, Celeste…
But even the air felt heavy.
The guests chattered again, oblivious to the storm that had passed.
Some approached, asking if she was alright.
She nodded, offering a false smile worthy of a CNN anchor, before turning towards the back hallway of the venue.
She leaned against the marble wall.
The back of her hand was pressed to her lips.
Her chest pounded with anxiety, not from the cold but from the shattering of the defenses she had built for five years.
Her pulse… she could still feel the warmth of his hand.
She still couldn't believe it.
It can't be… she whispered to herself.
That man is dead. I saw the fire. I saw the body. I buried him.
But his smile… his movements… the tone of his voice…
The line he whispered to her: No matter how far you run… some shadows find their way back.
That wasn't just a script.
That wasn't a general threat.
It was personal.
And in that moment, a door opened in her memory—one by one, like an explosion.
The smell of gasoline.
The heat of the fire.
The familiar silhouette inside the burning car.
And her broken scream, voiceless, as she held a wet, bloodstained trench coat.
Dominic…she whispered.
But why?
Why did that man look at her like that?
Why was her heart pounding as if he knew her?
Leo suddenly appeared from another hallway. He held a phone, his face as bright as the ballroom lights, furious.
"Celeste! I've been looking for you,"
he said, his voice full of authority and control.
"The investors are waiting. You disappeared in the middle of your own announcement."
Celeste smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
A smile full of fear. And concealment.
"I just needed some air," she said. "It was just too hot inside."
Leo stared at her. There was something in Leo's gaze—not a question, but a suspicion. As if he smelled a secret she was desperately hiding.
"Who were you with?"
Celeste blinked. "No one."
Quick. Direct.
But she knew she was lying.
And she knew Leo sensed it.
In the dark security room, a guard reviewed the ballroom CCTV footage.
He saw the footage:
Celeste—dancing alone.
No partner.
No hand-holding man.
No S. V. Del Fierro.
The guard scratched his head. "Is this a glitch?"
He checked other camera angles. It was the same.
Celeste was dancing as if with someone, but in the camera footage, there was no one.
If she had no dance partner… who was she looking at like that?
Dances don't end. They haunt you.
The moonlight sliced through the glass wall of Celeste's penthouse suite.
The night was quiet, but she felt a turmoil within. A memory she couldn't pinpoint as originating from her mind or her heart.
Her red gown, the one she wore to the ballroom, lay scattered on the floor like shed skin, discarded, never to be worn again. The silk shimmered faintly under the moonlight, as if it had a life of its own.
But she? Wide awake.
She just stared at the ceiling, as the ceiling fan silently rotated above.
Eyes wide open. Mind on fire.
She didn't understand what she was feeling. Was it fear? Or anger? Or maybe… guilt?
She didn't know. All she knew was that she couldn't forget that scene.
The ballroom.
The hand that held her, familiar.
The voice that almost stole her breath.
You buried a body, Celeste… but not the truth.
It was as if a ghost from the past danced beside her, held her waist, and whispered words no one should know.
It can't be...
No one else knows that.
Except her.
And the corpse.
She turned to her side table.
Her phone lay there. On silent. The screen was dark.
No new messages from the unknown number.
But that was what was more terrifying.
No follow-up.
No explanation.
No answer.
No closure.
She wanted to think it was all a hallucination. That maybe she was just tired, stressed, or maybe traumatized by everything that had happened.
But no. It wasn't an illusion.
She heard him.
She saw him.
He was there.
She sat up slowly, clutching her chest as if something beat there, not a heart but a memory.
What if it's not a haunting…
What if it's a warning?
She stood. Carefully. As if she might hear something she shouldn't.
She approached the closet and opened it.
The scent of her perfume clung faintly to the fabric of her clothes. Her gown hung there, but there was another gown inside that she didn't remember hanging up.
Confused, she took the red gown. Pulled it out. Searched for the small slit with a pocket.
Inside the pocket, she felt something.
Sharp.
Smooth.
Slowly, she pulled it out.
A match.
A matchstick.
It looked old, but it wasn't wet, nor was it completely broken.
Engraved on it:
DV.
She held the match.
She bit her lip as her skin gradually grew cold, even though the air conditioning wasn't on.
Dominic Vega.
The match slipped from her hand.
It fell onto the marble tiles with a faint click—like a signal.
She backed away.
Trembling.
Until she just sat on the floor, catching her breath.
No… she told herself again. You're dead. A long time ago. I shouldn't see you again…
Then suddenly, a door creaked somewhere in the suite. She wasn't sure if it was the kitchen or the main door. But she heard it.
She stood frozen.
Eyes wide.
Heart racing.
He was here. Or maybe… he never left.
She slowly walks to the door to check. But before she can reach it—her phone lights up.
One message. From the same unknown number.
Matches burn lies. Just like you burned me.