Chapter 2 - The Return of the Phantom
The Gulfstream G650 touched down smoothly at John F. Kennedy International Airport, its twin engines whining as it taxied toward the private hangar reserved for ultra-high-net-worth travelers.
Inside the cabin, Thaddius, Clarice, and Genevieve were surrounded by dozens of luxury shopping bags, custom luggage sets, and duty-free champagne bottles. Seventy-four days of pure luxury across Paris, Milan, Rome, Amalfi, and Zermatt had given them a bronze glow, but their hearts were filled with a dark, calculating anxiety.
"Remember the plan," Thaddius warned in a low whisper as the plane came to a halt. "When we enter the penthouse, we act shocked. We find her body, we call the private doctor I paid off last year, and we make sure the police understand she suffered a sudden relapse while we were abroad. I will play the grieving husband. Clarice, you weep for the press. Genevieve, stay silent and look devastated."
"Don't worry about us, Thaddius," Clarice sneered, adjusting her vintage mink coat. "Just make sure the lawyers file the estate paperwork immediately. I’ve already put a deposit on that estate in the Hamptons."
"And I booked a private island in the Bahamas for next month," Genevieve giggled. "Seraphina’s money tastes so much better than her personality ever did."
The air-stairs descended, and a black luxury SUV was waiting for them on the tarmac. The driver, dressed in a sharp black suit and wearing white leather gloves, stood beside the open door, bowing his head respectfully.
"Welcome back to New York, Mr. Mercer," the driver said, his voice flat and professional. "Mr. Hartwell’s estate management sent me to transport you directly to the Tribeca residence."
Thaddius raised an eyebrow. Hartwell’s estate management? He shrugged it off. It made sense; Seraphina’s family office probably received an automated alert when her black card was used to clear the customs fee.
"Good," Thaddius said, stepping into the leather interior of the SUV. "Take us home."
The drive through Manhattan was quiet. Thaddius stared out the window, his mind racing with calculations. He had already drafted the press release for Hartwell Trading: 'Tragic Loss of Co-Founder Seraphina Hartwell Prompts CEO Thaddius Mercer to Assume Full Control.' He could practically see the headlines in the Wall Street Journal. He would sell off her charity funds, convert her real estate portfolio into liquid cash, and buy out the remaining board members who had ever looked down on him.
When the SUV pulled up to the private residential skyscraper in Tribeca, the building looked unusually quiet. The street was empty. The grand marble lobby was deserted, save for a single security guard who did not offer his usual pleasant smile.
"Strange," Clarice muttered, looking around as they stepped into the lobby. "Where is the doorman? Where are the concierges?"
"Probably a shift change," Thaddius said dismissively, though a small knot of tension tightened in his stomach. "Let's go up."
They entered the private elevator. Thaddius pulled out his master keycard—the keycard that granted direct access to the top-floor penthouse. He swiped it against the digital scanner.
Beep.
The scanner flashed green, and the high-speed elevator began its smooth, silent ascent to the 80th floor.
"This is it," Genevieve whispered, her voice tight with sick excitement. "The moment we become real billionaires."
"Stay professional," Thaddius strictly commanded. "When those doors open, prepare yourselves for the odor. It has been seventy-four days without climate control."
The elevator slowed down.
Ding.
The brass doors slid open smoothly.
Thaddius stepped out first, preparing himself to act horrified. He took a deep breath, expecting the putrid smell of decay and stagnant air.
Instead, the air that met his lungs was crisp, cold, and smelled faintly of fresh white lilies and expensive sandalwood.
The lights in the hallway were bright and glowing. The central air conditioning hummed softly in the background.
Thaddius froze. Clarice and Genevieve bumped into his back, gasping.
"What... what is this?" Clarice stammered, looking around. "Did you leave the power on?"
"No," Thaddius whispered, his face turning pale. "I cut the main breaker myself. I turned off the water valves."
Slowly, carefully, Thaddius walked down the long, mirrored hallway toward the master living room. The grand double doors were wide open.
Standing in the center of the vast, three-story living room, illuminated by the afternoon sun streaming through the glass walls, was a sleek, black wheel-less executive chair.
And sitting in that chair, wearing an exquisite tailored ivory suit, her hair styled in effortless golden waves, holding a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, was Seraphina.
She turned her head slowly, looking at them.
May you like
Her face was not that of a corpse. It was radiant, powerful, and completely alive.
"Welcome home, Thaddius," Seraphina said, her voice dropping into the silent room like a blade of ice. "How was Europe?"
