Chapter 2: His Ghost’s Double

I stared at the card in my hand for a long time. Spring rain had just fallen in New York. Unlike LA, the air was cold, damp, and restless, humming with the city’s energy. I pulled Brendan’s jacket tighter around me, letting the warmth sink into my skin.

Ten years ago, people used to call Brendan the “Crown Prince of Manhattan’s Boardrooms.” At thirty, no one dared joke anymore. He was in charge now, untouchable.

Looking back, I realized Brendan probably knew I’d call the second he handed me that card. He could’ve handled Jordan right there, but he didn’t. Instead, he and Jordan silently forced me to pick a side. Was this some older man’s pride? I almost laughed—it was just someone at the top, watching everyone else scramble, letting me twist in the wind.

I punched in the familiar number, counting my heartbeats as the phone rang.

“Hello.” Looking at my own reflection, I said quietly, “Mr. Tate, this is Mia Walker.”

He chuckled—a low, magnetic sound, even if the phone made it a little rough. “Five o’clock this afternoon. I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

When I arrived at the Fushen Penthouse, Brendan had just stepped out of the shower. The place overlooked the skyline, with a strip of ocean beyond. He wore a black robe, chest bare, hair still damp, legs crossed as he flipped through my file—my whole life, boiled down to a single page for his inspection.

“Only twenty?” He set the file aside after a while. “So young.”

His tone was cool, giving nothing away. I kept my eyes down, silent, toes curling into the plush carpet. You’re not above this either, I thought, letting the words echo in my head.

“Come here.” He uncrossed his legs and reached out. His hands were large, warm, the kind that could be gentle or commanding—broad palms, long fingers, knuckles distinct, nails perfectly trimmed. I reached out, and he drew me closer, studying me with a focus that made my skin prickle. Compared to the way he’d stared at me at the club, his gaze now was much softer. My lashes fluttered, caught between fear and something like shyness. He really liked my face.

“You grew up in LA,” he said. “Can you still do that LA accent?”

I nodded, hesitated, then let my voice slip into that lazy, sun-drenched drawl. “Mr. Tate.”

He squeezed my hand a little tighter, then said quietly, “Stay with me for a while, okay?” It sounded like a question, his tone gentle enough. But I knew I didn’t really have a choice.

Brendan kissed me, slow and careful, as if he wanted to memorize the moment. He pulled me onto his lap, one arm snug around my waist. I pressed against his damp chest, my hand shaking, body tense. He smiled, kissing the tip of my nose. “First time?”

I nodded. His cologne, usually so cool and woody, felt warmer between us. The next second, I gasped as he scooped me up. The thick carpet muffled our steps as he carried me toward the master bedroom, each step making my heart race. The curtains lowered slowly, the room turning dim and intimate, our breaths heavy with anticipation. A big bouquet of white peonies sat on the nightstand, petals still glistening with drops of water.

I sank into the soft bed as Brendan leaned over me, arms bracketing my body. His kiss this time was nothing like the first—hungry, unrestrained, the sound of it wet and desperate. Trying to catch my breath, I caught a glimpse of the peonies, nearly tumbling from their vase. He gripped my chin, turning me back to face him, clearly annoyed that I was distracted. His robe belt slipped loose, hair slicked back, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp and predatory.

His voice was rough. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

I held my breath. I didn’t really believe he would.

“Come here.” He guided my hand to his belt. My fingers were pink, trembling violently. My last clear thought before I went under was: this man is dangerous—and he really was only wearing that robe.

When I woke up, it was already morning. The sheets were cool and smooth. I sat up, body exhausted. Someone had changed me into a nightgown and tended to my bruises. I stared blankly for a moment, thinking, Brendan Tate really knows how to take care of someone. Was he really the one in control?

The spring sun was bright and clear. Brendan sat on the terrace sofa reading, dressed down in a white shirt and black slacks. When he heard me stir, he looked up, his features striking, almost severe—a world away from the man gasping for air last night. He closed his book, held out his hand like always. “Come here.”

I hesitated for a second, then walked over. He pulled me into his lap again, kissed my nose, brushed my hair aside, and asked softly, “Why did you choose me?”

His touch tickled my forehead. I tried to hide in his arms, but he gently pinched my chin, not letting me escape.

“Jordan Xu may be adopted, but he’s capable and good-looking,” Brendan said, his fingers tracing my jaw. “Why pick an old guy like me?”

That gentle, controlling energy came back. I muttered to myself, as if I ever really had a choice.

I clung to his wrist, nuzzling into his palm. “You’re not old.”

He didn’t react to the flattery, just tightened his grip, impatient for a real answer.

“Mr. Xu only liked my face,” I said carefully. “They say I look a little like Miss Xu.”

His hand stilled on my cheek.

Miss Xu—Charlotte Xu, only heir of the Xu family in LA, Jordan’s adopted sister, and Brendan’s former fiancée. He’d broken up with her just two months ago.

The air felt delicate, almost breakable. I looked down, not daring to meet his eyes. “Mr. Tate, do you think we look alike?”

He didn’t answer at first. After a moment, he said, “Maybe a little.”

I looked up, surprised.

“The last time I saw her in person was ten years ago,” he said, pinching my cheek. “She was only ten then. It’s been a long time.”

Ten years ago, twenty-year-old Brendan went to LA for a funeral—the last time he set foot in the Xu house. After Mr. Xu Sr. passed, the families’ only connection was gone. Ten years apart, his ex-fiancée’s face had faded with time.

My throat tightened with a heavy, bitter ache. Forgetting myself, I choked out, “So you saved me because of this face too?”

He raised an eyebrow. I’d crossed a line—I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Something like that,” he replied, as slippery as ever. “Maybe I was just looking for some comfort.”

“They say,” I whispered, “you broke off the engagement because you thought you were too old for her.”

“That’s right. It was Mr. Xu Sr.’s idea from the start,” he admitted. “A twenty-year-old girl—I just couldn’t cross that line.”

I went quiet. In the end, Mia Walker’s youth wasn’t worth much.