Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Studio
The small art district in Savannah, Georgia, was suffocatingly humid, smelling of old salt marsh, blooming jasmine, and roasting coffee beans. Two days after landing in New York, I was standing across the cobblestone street from Line & Leaf, a modest second-floor design studio with a faded wooden sign hanging above the green-painted door.
Marcus stood a respectful ten paces behind me, wearing civilian clothes to blend into the bohemian crowd of artists and tourists.
Through the tall, arched second-story window, I saw her.
Naomi Ellis.
She hadn't changed much, yet the years had added a profound, quiet strength to her posture. Her dark curls were pinned up in a loose, messy clip, a smudge of charcoal dust smeared across her cheek. She was leaning over a drafting table, focused intently on a vector sketch displayed on her oversized monitor, holding a coffee mug in one hand.
My chest tightened. The last time I saw her, she was laughing at me on a cramped flight, her knee brushing mine as we fought over a tiny plastic tray. Now, she looked like a woman who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders—a mother protecting her cub in absolute solitude.
"She hasn't dated anyone in five years, boss," Marcus murmured quietly, stepping up beside me and handing me a manila folder. "According to our local operatives, she keeps to herself. Works freelance for boutique brands, volunteers at the community library on weekends, and spends every evening reading bedtime stories to Lily. Her landlord says she’s the most punctual, quiet tenant they’ve ever had."
I opened the folder. Photos of Naomi walking through the farmers market, laughing softly with Julie, carrying groceries under a red umbrella. In every frame, she looked breathtaking, yet there was a lingering shadow in her eyes—the ghost of a man she thought had abandoned her.
"What about my uncle's old associates in the South?" I asked, my voice cold as ice.
"Cleaned out," Marcus replied. "The ones who threatened her back then were prosecuted during the federal sweep two years ago. The rest scattered to the winds. She’s completely safe here. She just doesn't know it."
"She's going to know it today," I said, handing the folder back.
I crossed the cobblestone street, my boots clicking against the pavement. My heart—a muscle that had remained stubbornly steady through corporate coups, knife fights in alleyways, and hostile takeovers—was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I climbed the narrow wooden staircase leading up to the studio door. The air smelled of turpentine, fresh paper, and vanilla.
When I pushed the door open, a small brass bell chimed overhead.
Naomi didn't look up immediately. She was still sketching, her pencil scratching softly against the pad. "I'll be with you in a minute, if you're here about the brand identity package..."
Her voice.
Hearing it after five years hit me like a physical blow. The warm, slightly raspy southern cadence that had haunted my quietest nights.
"Naomi," I said.
The pencil snapped in half.
For three agonizing seconds, the entire room froze. Naomi slowly raised her head, turning around from her drafting table to face the doorway.
May you like
When her eyes locked onto mine, the color drained entirely from her face. Her coffee mug slipped from her fingers, shattering against the wooden floorboards, dark liquid pooling around her canvas shoes.
"Dante," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "No... that's impossible."
