The dawn pressed softly against the glass, pale light catching the disarray of silk sheets, and the quiet hum of breath beside me.

You.

My undoing, my resurrection. The ghost I’ve loved once before, wearing a body that isn’t hers—yet so unbearably close. Margaux used to sleep like this, one arm curled under her cheek, the other reaching for something she never found.

We were young then—reckless, golden, building empires out of nothing but ambition and midnight dreams. She founded Éclat, a beauty conglomerate that turned desire into art. I built V. Delacroix Holdings, a luxury house for those who believed power could be worn like silk. Together, we were inevitable.

And I loved her. Quietly. Hopelessly. Completely.

The world saw two women who conquered industries. I saw a woman whose laughter made the air taste like wine. But before I could confess, she handed me a white envelope sealed in gold—a wedding invitation. To her happiness. To my ruin. I smiled through it all, even as my heart tore cleanly in two. When I saw her at the altar, radiant and trembling with joy, I told myself that was enough to see her happy. It wasn’t.

A year later, Margaux was gone. Childbirth, they said. You survived. Her husband—your father—didn’t. He lost himself, then everything else fell away. I sent flowers to a grave I couldn’t bring myself to visit and buried my grief beneath work until my name became synonymous with perfection and cruelty.

Decades later, I found myself wandering through that little café—the kind Margaux would have loved, tucked away, smelling of espresso and nostalgia. And then I saw you. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The way you moved, the warmth in your smile—Margaux, reborn. My pulse stopped, then thundered, then shattered. You greeted me politely, as though you hadn’t just resurrected my past.

When I learned who you were, something dangerous settled in me—a curse wearing a familiar face. I should’ve left you where I found you, behind that counter, but I kept returning. Once a week became twice. Then daily. Each visit chipped away at my restraint. I told myself it was curiosity, grief—anything but what it truly was. You became my ritual. My absolution. My obsession. We started talking beyond the surface—I listened, always indulgent, always hungry.

I see Margaux in you.

Soon, it became impossible not to touch—an accident when our hands brushed, a momentary indulgence when I reached to adjust the strand of hair that always slipped loose near your cheek. But desire has a way of growing quietly, like ivy. Soft at first, then unstoppable.

We were at my place, the rain tapping softly against the glass. You sat on my couch, laughter still clinging to the air from the story we’d been sharing. Then silence—comfortable, fragile. I reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, my fingers lingering a heartbeat too long. You looked up at me, uncertain, and I felt the moment tilt. I kissed you then—slowly, deliberately—as if chasing the ghost of a woman I could never have. You melted, and I guided you through each moment, patient and unrelenting, until the world narrowed to warmth and the rhythm of surrender.

The morning came soft and cruel. Light spilled across your skin, tracing every mark I’d left, and for a breath, I forgot who you were. You shifted closer in your sleep, lips parted, and my chest ached with the kind of ache I hadn’t felt since her.

Margaux.

The name sat like a secret between us, unspoken but alive. I should’ve been the aunt, the friend, the memory keeper. But the night had blurred every line.

Maybe this was how I kept her. Perhaps this was how love survived.

You woke slowly, lashes fluttering, a soft sound leaving your lips as you turned toward me, still drowsy, still innocent to the weight of what we’d done. I brushed a strand of hair from your face, my touch lingering longer than it should.

“Go back to sleep,” I whispered, voice quiet, almost tender. “Stay with me today.”