The Phantom CEO's Runaway Contract Lover

Arley came home from the McCarthy meeting looking like he'd seen a ghost. The man he'd met, this "Mr. Alistair," had eviscerated his proposal with a quiet, surgical precision that left him feeling like an idiot child. He'd been dismissed and told to come back when he had something worthy of their time. He locked himself in his study without a word.

Hope savored the silence.

Later that evening, Arley emerged, looking marginally more composed. He was on a video call with Kenia, pacing in the living room. Hope, in her bedroom, could hear Kenia's whining, pleading voice.

A wicked idea sparked in Hope's mind.

She slipped into Arley's walk-in closet and pulled one of his white dress shirts from its hanger. In her bathroom, she stripped off her own clothes, pulling on the shirt. It fell to her mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past her hands. She messed up her hair and used a touch of red lipstick to create a few, faint, bruise-like marks on her neck.

Then, barefoot, she padded silently toward the living room.

Arley had his back to her, cooing into his phone. "Baby, I promise, there's nothing going on. It's just for show, you're the only one I care about."

Hope chose that exact moment to walk past the sofa, directly in the phone's line of sight.

She rubbed her eyes sleepily. "Arley, honey," she said, her voice a drowsy murmur. "Have you seen my phone? I think I left it on the couch."

On the screen, Kenia's face went from tear-streaked to a mask of horror. She saw Hope, wearing Arley's shirt, hair a mess, love bites on her neck.

A shrill, piercing scream erupted from the phone's speaker, and the screen went black. The call was over.

Arley spun around, his eyes landing on Hope's performance art. Understanding, followed by pure, apoplectic rage, dawned on his face.

"HOPE PERRY!"

She blinked at him, all innocence. "What? I'm just looking for my phone."

His phone began ringing, a frantic, incessant buzz. Kenia. He didn't have time for this. He had to go put out the fire.

He grabbed his keys, shot her a look that promised murder, and slammed the apartment door behind him.

Another quiet night, she thought with a satisfied smile.

She went to bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

In the quiet stillness of the early morning, a soft, unfamiliar chime sliced through the air. It was elegant, resonant, and utterly out of place.

It was coming from her nightstand.

Hope's eyes snapped open. Sitting beside her lamp, where nothing had been before, was a phone. It was impossibly thin, crafted from black, seamless metal, with a single, pulsing silver 'M' on the back. It was not her phone. It was not the burner she had destroyed. It was an artifact, delivered by a ghost.

The chime sounded again, insistent.

Just then, the bedroom door creaked open. It was Arley, back from his night of damage control with Kenia. He heard the strange, melodic tone. His eyes, bloodshot and filled with resentment, landed on the gleaming, unfamiliar device on her nightstand.

He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't hers. A cold, vengeful thought seized him. This must be it. The line to her secret lover.

Fueled by a desire for revenge, he crossed the room while Hope was still pushing herself up, a moment before she could react.

He snatched the phone from the nightstand.

And he answered the call.