He Chose The Mistress, Losing His True Queen

Ellery POV:

The burner phone felt heavy in my hand, vibrating with potential destruction like a live grenade.

I sat on the floor of the walk-in closet, surrounded by fifty thousand dollars’ worth of silk and cashmere—designer clothes Brendan had curated for me.

They weren't just clothes. They were costumes.

Armor for the role I was forced to play.

I dialed the number I had memorized years ago, a sequence of digits that wasn't supposed to exist.

It rang twice.

"Ghost Maker," a distorted voice answered.

"I need a Tabula Rasa," I said, my voice steady.

There was a long, heavy pause on the other end.

"Ellery?" the voice asked, the digital distortion dropping away to reveal the stunned tone of Evans Calderon.

"Don't use my name," I whispered, the command sharp despite the low volume.

"You know what you are asking for," Evans said, his voice grave. "It is not just amnesia. It is a wipe. A hard reset. You won't remember him. You won't remember yourself. You won't remember how to code, how to launder money, or why you are running. You will be a blank slate. An infant in a woman's body until the new memories settle."

"Good," I said.

"It is suicide of the soul, Ellery," he warned. "You are killing the woman you are."

"That woman is already dead," I replied. "Can you do it?"

"I can," he said heavily. "But the cost..."

"I have the crypto keys for the Cayman accounts," I cut him off. "You will be paid double."

"Thursday," he said finally. "Come to the lab. And bring nothing."

I hung up and slipped the phone back inside the hollowed-out spine of the book.

Steeling myself, I walked out into the bedroom.

Brendan was asleep, his arm thrown carelessly over his eyes.

He looked peaceful.

As if he hadn't just incinerated my entire world.

I climbed into bed beside him, careful not to touch him.

But he shifted, his arm coming around my waist, pulling me against his chest.

He buried his face in my neck, inhaling my scent.

"Mine," he mumbled in his sleep.

A wave of nausea rolled through me.

I used to think his possessiveness was protection.

I used to think the guards, the walls, the tracking on my car were because he wanted to keep me safe from his enemies.

Now, I realized the truth.

He wasn't protecting me from the world.

He was protecting his property from being stolen.

I lay there in the dark, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

I tried to summon the love I had felt for him yesterday.

I tried to remember the way he had pulled me from that burning car, his face soot-stained, his eyes wild with terror for me.

But all I could see was the text message.

All I could hear was him telling Kiya I was functional.

Functional.

Like an algorithm.

Like a loaded gun.

I closed my eyes and started to build a wall in my mind.

Brick by brick.

I placed every memory of him behind it.

The first time he kissed me.

The way he held my hand at the opera.

The way he looked at me when I presented him with the blueprints for the estate.

I sealed them away.

I didn't need a doctor to tell me the procedure would hurt.

I was already in agony.

But pain was just information.

And I knew how to manipulate data.

When the sun came up, I would be the perfect wife one last time.

I would pour his coffee.

I would straighten his tie.

I would kiss him goodbye.

And he would never know that the woman in his arms was already a ghost.