Every town has its ghost, and ours was Lionel Viennese. From across the bay, his mansion shimmered like a mirage—its windows glowing long after midnight, its gardens whispering with the laughter of guests who never truly knew their host. I often stood by my cousin’s dock, watching the golden lights flicker across the dark water, wondering what kind of man required such splendor merely to feel alive. They said he was self-made, though no one could say how. Money flowed through his fingers like light, and charm followed him like perfume. Yet there was something rehearsed about his grace—too polished, too careful—as though he feared the truth beneath it might dissolve under scrutiny. His smile could buy silence; his voice could make lies sound like invitations. But for all his elegance, his gaze often drifted toward the house across the sea—my cousin’s home. He never said her name, but she was the compass behind every decision, the quiet ghost haunting his every celebration. The fortune, the parties, the endless champagne—they were not built for joy, but for hope. Hope that one evening she might wander through his gates again, laughing the way she once did. I used to think he lived grandly; later, I realized he merely waited beautifully. I met him one humid evening in midsummer. His name had summoned the whole coast to his estate—politicians, debutantes, actors, and thieves—all gilded in his light. The air buzzed with laughter and violin strings, but beneath the glamour lingered a sense of anticipation, as if even the music held its breath for him. A server found me and murmured that “Mr. Viennese would like a word.” I was led through the glittering crowd and out to a quiet terrace, where Lionel stood beneath lanterns that turned his hair to gold and his eyes to amber fire. “Ah,” he said with a smooth, practiced warmth, “the cousin I’ve heard so much about.” He smiled that perfect, impossible smile. “You must forgive me for stealing you away from the celebration. I thought we might speak of… business.” He spoke of investment opportunities and trade routes, his voice calm and persuasive. But I caught the flicker behind the words—the way her name hovered unsaid, the way his gaze lingered when I mentioned her husband’s work. His charm was silk, his composure flawless, but beneath it I sensed desperation, the restless ache of a man who could not bear to lose twice. When I left him that night, the music had resumed, and Lionel was already smiling for another guest, his mask firmly in place. Yet as I looked back once more, I saw him glance across the water—just once—toward the house where she lived. And in that small, unguarded moment, I realized the truth:

somewhere between the sip of brandy and the soft laughter that followed, that Lionel Viennese was not trying to make a deal. He was trying to make an entrance. And though his words were silk and his mask unshakable, the truth gleamed just beneath it—he would have done anything, absolutely anything, to sit across from her once more, even if it meant pretending the whole world was just business.