Marcus Holt's office is in downtown LA. Glass and steel. Fourteenth floor. I take the elevator up alone.
The receptionist recognizes my name. Her eyes widen just a fraction before she smooths her expression. "Ms. Reed. Mr. Holt is expecting you."
She leads me down a hallway lined with framed deals. Real estate closings. Corporate mergers. I see my father's signature on three of them. Arthur Reed. Neat. Precise. The handwriting I grew up watching.
Marcus stands when I enter. He's older than I remember. Gray at the temples. But his handshake is firm. His eyes are kind.
"Alayna." He says my name carefully. Like he's testing whether it's safe. "I'm glad you came."
I sit. He sits. There's a box on his desk. Banker's box. Taped shut. My father's handwriting on the side. A.R. - Contingency.
"I kept this," Marcus says quietly. "Your father gave it to me three weeks before he died. He said if anything happened to him, I was to hold it until you were ready."
My throat tightens. "He knew."
"He suspected." Marcus leans forward. "He didn't trust Dorian Burke. Never did. He started drafting protective strategies the moment the wedding was announced. Legal structures. Buyback clauses. Poison pills embedded in contracts Burke never read closely enough."
He slides the box across the desk.
I stare at it. My father's last gift. A weapon I didn't know existed.
"He believed in you," Marcus says. "He knew if you survived, you'd come back. And when you did, you'd need this."
I pull the box toward me. Cut the tape with the scissors Marcus offers. Inside: folders. Documents. Spreadsheets. A USB drive. And a handwritten note on top.
I pick it up. My father's handwriting.
*Alayna—If you're reading this, I'm gone. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from what's coming. But I can give you the tools to rebuild. Reed Properties is yours. It always was. The strategies in this box will show you how to take it back. Trust Marcus. Trust yourself. I love you. —Dad*
I fold the note. Slip it into my pocket. My hands are steady.
I spend three hours in that office. Reading. Absorbing. My father had mapped it all out. How Burke leveraged Reed investments. How he undercut contracts. How he dismantled the company piece by piece. And how to reverse it.
Every document is meticulous. Every clause is airtight. I see my father in every line. The same precision. The same refusal to leave anything to chance.
I inherited more than his name.
"This is brilliant," I say finally.
Marcus nods. "He was the best I ever worked with."
I close the last folder. Look at Marcus. "I want to file for a hostile takeover of Meridian Holdings. They absorbed Reed Properties in year three. I want it back."
Marcus doesn't blink. "When?"
"Today."
He almost smiles. "I'll make the calls."
---
I leave Marcus's office with the box under my arm. The sun is setting. The city glows orange and gold. I stand on the sidewalk. Breathe.
My phone buzzes. A text from the airline. Boarding pass attached. JFK. Tomorrow morning. One way.
I open my rideshare app. Request a car. It arrives in three minutes.
"Where to?" the driver asks.
"Laguna Beach," I say. "One last stop."
---
The house is dark when I arrive. I let myself in. The jasmine is gone. I threw it all out days ago. But the smell lingers. Sweet. Cloying.
I go upstairs. Pull my suitcase from the closet. Pack methodically. My father's watch. The forensic report. The photographs from Piper's file. One pair of jeans. Two shirts. Underwear. Socks.
Nothing else.
I look around the bedroom. The bed we shared. The closet full of Claire's clothes. The vanity with her makeup. Her perfume.
None of it is mine.
I zip the suitcase. Carry it downstairs.
Dorian is sitting in the kitchen.
I stop. He looks up. His face is hollow. He's been crying.
"You're leaving," he says.
It's not a question.
"Yes."
He stands. Moves toward me. I don't step back. I just wait.
"Please." His voice cracks. "Don't go. I'll do anything. I'll sign the papers. I'll disappear. Just don't leave like this."
I look at him. This man. This stranger.
"I already left," I say quietly. "Five years ago. When you walked out of that church. I'm just making it official."
He's blocking the door. Not aggressively. Just standing there. Like if he stays in my path long enough, I'll change my mind.
"Move," I say.
He doesn't.
"Dorian." I meet his eyes. "Move."
Something in my voice—cold, final, absolute—makes him step aside.
I walk past him. Out the door. Down the steps. The rideshare is waiting.
I don't look back.
In the car, the driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Airport?"
"No," I say. "A hotel near LAX. I have an early flight."
He nods. Pulls away.
I watch the house disappear in the side mirror. The lights. The ocean. The life that was never mine.
Gone.
I pull my father's note from my pocket. Read it again in the glow of passing streetlights.
*Trust yourself.*
I fold it carefully. Put it back.
Tomorrow, I go home.
Tonight, I sleep as Alayna Reed.
No more ghosts.
