After My Lover Erased Himself to Be My Ghost

Diana Cho sat across from me and dropped a thick, glossy folder on my glass desk. “Aurel & Voss,” she said flatly.

I looked at the gold lettering. They were a legacy jewelry house. A global campaign with them was a crown in this industry.

“They want you,” my publicist continued. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “And they want Briggs.”

I didn’t blink. I pushed the folder back toward her with one finger. “No.”

“Saylor, listen to me,” Diana said. Her voice was sharp. She didn’t coddle me. It was why I paid her. “If you decline this, it becomes a story. The blogs will say you’re threatened by his sudden fame. Or worse, they’ll say you’re heartbroken and hiding. You cannot give them that narrative.”

I stared at the folder. I hated that she was right. I had spent my entire career building an armor of pure, untouchable ice. Backing out of a massive campaign because of a twenty-something actor would crack it.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “But I have terms. Strictly professional. Separate dressing rooms. No lingering on set. No joint press interviews. We shoot the photos, and we leave.”

Diana nodded. “I’ll send it to his agency.”

She relayed the demands that afternoon. Briggs’s agent responded an hour later. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push back. He just said Briggs understood. I told myself I was relieved.

The shoot took place over two days in a massive, cold studio in Manhattan.

The room smelled like hot lighting gels and expensive hairspray. Dozens of crew members buzzed around us. Racks of designer clothes lined the walls. Armed security guards stood by velvet trays of millions of dollars in diamonds.

I stepped onto the white backdrop. I wore a backless black silk gown.

Briggs walked onto the set a minute later. He wore a tailored charcoal suit. His hair was styled back. The pink laser scar under his eye was perfectly concealed. He didn’t look nervously around the room like he used to. He didn’t wait for my cue. He walked with heavy, measured steps. He looked like he owned the building.

“Alright, let’s make magic!” the photographer, a French man named Luc, shouted. “Stand together. Closer. Give me heat. Give me possession.”

Briggs stepped into my space. The air between us vanished.

I looked up at him. I expected him to drop his gaze. The boy in my Malibu house always dropped his gaze. But this man didn’t. He looked right into my eyes. His stare was dark, direct, and completely unyielding. It was almost confrontational.

“Hand on her collarbone, Briggs,” Luc directed.

Briggs raised his hand. His warm fingers brushed my bare skin. A sudden, violent shiver threatened to run down my spine. I locked my knees. I kept my face perfectly still. I gave the camera a cool, detached stare. We were close enough that I could smell him. He didn’t smell like cinnamon and brown sugar anymore. He smelled like vetiver and cold rain.

We moved through the poses for hours. He didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to him. It was a silent, brutal tug-of-war. Every time he touched my waist, he gripped a little too firmly. Every time I turned my face away, I did it a little too sharply.

On the second day, we shot the close-ups.

I wore a heavy, blinding diamond choker. We sat at a small table draped in black velvet. An open jewelry case sat between us. Our hands were supposed to be laced together over the diamonds.

“Intimate,” Luc called out from behind his lens. “Like you have a secret. Touch her arm, Briggs. Look at her lips.”

Briggs shifted his weight. His broad shoulder brushed mine. He reached out and wrapped his hand around my forearm. His grip was warm and solid.

Then, slowly, his hand slid down my arm.

His thumb moved past my palm. It slipped to the inside of my left wrist.

He stopped. He pressed his thumb down, right over my pulse.

My heart slammed against my ribs. It was my secret tell. The exact spot I touched whenever I was falling apart. The spot I pressed on the beach when I left him. The spot I held when I watched him win his award. I thought no one ever noticed.

He knew. He had been paying attention the whole time.

My breath caught. It was a tiny, invisible gasp. But under his thumb, my pulse went absolutely frantic. It battered against his skin like a trapped bird.

Briggs didn’t look at the camera. He looked down at my face. His dark eyes locked onto mine. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a word. He just held his thumb there, letting the frantic beat of my heart hammer against his skin. He was letting me know that he felt it. He was letting me know that my armor was a lie.

“Beautiful! Hold that!” Luc yelled. The camera flashed blindingly fast.

“Got it. We’re wrapped!”

I ripped my arm out of his grip instantly. The cold studio air hit my damp skin. I didn’t look back at him. I turned on my heel and walked straight to my dressing room.

I shut the heavy door behind me and locked it.

The room was dead silent. I walked over to the vanity mirror and gripped the marble edges. My chest was heaving. I stared at my own reflection. My eyes were wide. My perfectly painted lips were parted. I looked terrified.

He wasn’t a ghost anymore. He was real, and he was hunting me.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

I picked it up. It was a text from Maya. She had been standing by the monitor feed all day. She saw everything the camera saw. She saw his thumb on my wrist. And she saw that I didn’t pull away fast enough.

The text was one sentence.

*You don’t have to go to the after-party.*

I stared at the glowing screen. I could tell my driver to take me straight to the hotel. I could lock my door, order black coffee, and fly back to Los Angeles in the morning. I could run. It would be the smart thing to do. It would be the safe thing to do.

I set the phone face-down on the marble counter.

I looked back in the mirror. I picked up a tube of dark red lipstick. I applied it slowly, perfectly tracing the sharp lines of my mouth. I smoothed down the front of my silk gown. I forced my breathing to slow down.

I wasn’t going to run. I was Saylor Montgomery. I didn’t hide from anyone.

I dropped the lipstick into my clutch. I unlocked the door, stepped out into the hallway, and walked toward the party.