One mysterious email.
One impossible name.
One decision that changes everything.
The sound of the coffee machine was the only thing keeping Aria Hale sane.
It hissed, sputtered, and filled the air with that sweet-bitter smell she was all too familiar with, deadlines and regret clinging to every breath.
Her laptop screen glowed too bright for someone who hadn't slept in almost twenty hours. Another rejection email blinked at her inbox, polite words masking disappointment.
"We have decided to go in a different direction."
She laughed, but it came out dry. "Of course you did," she muttered.
My laptop fan hummed like it was tired of hearing my problems too. Rent was late again. My fridge had three things in it; half a lemon, expired yogurt, and despair.
Being a ghostwriter was supposed to be fun; creative, even romantic. You help people tell their stories, shape their dreams into words. That's what I expected. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like that. They weren't my stories anymore; they were theirs. Their dreams. Their voices. And me? I was just invisible ink. And honestly the pay isn't even worth it anymore.
Her fingers hovered over the trackpad when a new notification popped up: "Confidential Offer: Memoir Completion Project."
Aria frowned. No sender name, no company logo. Just a subject line that screamed scam.
But curiosity? It always won.
She clicked.
Ms. Hale,
We've reviewed your previous works and believe your discretion suits an unfinished memoir project. Compensation is negotiable but substantial. Relocation required. Non-disclosure agreement mandatory.
Duration: 6 months (on site).
Compensation: $250,000 upon completion.
Relocation and housing provided.
A non-disclosure agreement must be signed before any further details are released.
If interested, respond within 24 hours.
Cole Industries.
I blinked. Once. Twice. Then again just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.
A quarter of a million dollars? For six months?
I did the math twice, even though math and I were never friends. That wasn't a job; that was a miracle in email form.
I leaned in my chair, waiting for the part where my laptop exploded or someone told me I'd been pranked.
But the email didn't feel fake. No bad grammar. No suspicious links. Just serious. Polished. Real.
And then I saw the company name again.
Cole Industries?
Something about it itched at the back of my mind.
I opened a new tab and typed it in. That's where his face appeared, the one I'd seen in every business magazine and tech blog two years ago.
Damian Cole. The billionaire genius who built a global empire out of nothing. The man who supposedly died in a plane crash off the coast of Italy.
My finger froze over the keyboard.
Wait. What?
Why would a dead man's company want her to finish his memoir?
She paced her tiny apartment, the wooden floor whining softly under her steps.
If this was real, the pay could fix everything; the rent, the loans, the thought sitting like a stone in her chest.
But if it wasn't?
Then she was just another desperate writer falling for a scam that sounded too good to be true.
Her phone buzzed again. A second mail slid in.
"A car will be sent tomorrow at 8 a.m. to bring you to the Cole Estate. Please confirm your availability."
She froze.
They weren't even asking. They were telling her.
Her fingers trembled as she typed a single word: "Confirmed."
The car arrived the next day right on time. Sleek, black, the kind that didn't belong on her street. She was ready to leave, but not without taking one last look at her apartment. The driver didn't say a word, and she didn't ask. She just climbed into the back seat, heart thudding quietly against her ribs.
By the time the city disappeared behind them, her nerves were humming. Sharp and restless, like a wire sparking under her skin.
When the gates of the Cole Estate came into view, her stomach turned over. The mansion stood high on a cliff, a fortress of glass and silence staring out over an ocean that looked too calm to be real. Too still, as if it was holding its breath.
She stepped out of the car, the wind hitting her face with that salty bite only the sea could bring. The air felt heavier here, thicker somehow, as if it carried secrets.
A woman in a fitted gray suit was already waiting, tablet in hand, her expression carved from stone.
"Ms. Hale," she said smoothly. "I'm Julia Rowan. Thank you for accepting our offer. If you'll follow me, we'll review the terms."
Aria nodded, her voice caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.
Inside, the mansion looked exactly how she imagined the home of a billionaire would: high ceilings, marble floors, too much space.
Everything was spotless, polished to perfection, yet it didn't feel alive. The air was cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
It felt like a house that had been maintained, not lived in.
Julia led her into a bright office overlooking the ocean. The waves shimmered behind thick glass, distant and unreachable. Without a word, Julia placed a folder on the marble table and slid it forward.
"This is the non-disclosure agreement," she said. "Nothing about this project leaves the property. You'll be working here until completion."
Aria hesitated, her fingers hovering over the pen.
"You're really asking me to write a memoir for someone who's…" Her voice trailed off. "Gone?"
For the first time, Julia's eyes flicked up. Cool, unreadable.
"Let's just say," she replied softly, "the story isn't finished yet."
That line lingered in the air, heavy and quiet, like a whisper she wasn't supposed to hear.
Aria signed anyway. Because what else could she do? She was already here. The moment the pen left the paper, she felt something shift, like a door closing behind her.
Julia took the folder, her movements crisp and practiced.
"Welcome to Cole Industries, Ms. Hale," she said, standing. "Your new life begins now."
Aria followed her down a long corridor where every step echoed too loud, too clear. The walls seemed to hum faintly, alive with quiet electricity.
And though she didn't know why, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. That feeling again, being watched.
She turned her head slightly, but the hallway was empty. Still, she couldn't shake it, that weight of a gaze she couldn't see.
If she had looked just a little closer, past the half-open door at the end of the hall, she might have noticed it.
A shadow.
Tall. Still.
And very much alive.