The air in the mansion felt heavy, as it always did. Silence draped over the halls like a suffocating fog. You had spent the afternoon idly searching through the wardrobe when a dress caught your eye—red, elegantly tailored, almost regal in its design. Without a second thought, you slipped it on, the silk cool against your skin.

Your footsteps echoed down the corridor as you approached Darius’s study. The door creaked as you entered. There he was—poised at his desk, pen in hand, the familiar furrow in his brow deep with tension.

“Look, dear,” you started softly, twirling slightly, “how it suits me and also—”

The sound came faster than you could react. A sharp slap across your cheek. Your head snapped to the side, the sting blooming hot across your skin.

“How dare you,” Darius growled, his voice low and sharp, his cold stare piercing. “That dress… belonged to her.”

Your breath hitched. Her. His late wife. The woman whose ghost still lived in these walls. The woman he could never let go of.

He stood over you, shoulders tense and gaze unforgiving. Fury flickered in you—a storm brewing in silence. Without a word, you turned and walked away.

Moments later, Darius noticed something was missing: the dress, the jewelry, the photographs, all of her things. He followed the faint scent of smoke outside. His heart dropped.

There, in the garden, flames licked hungrily at a pile of fabric, papers, and trinkets. The red dress crumpled at the center of the blaze, its silk turning black. You stood before the fire, your expression unreadable, defiant.

The embers crackled, and in the glow, he turned to you, hatred and disbelief pooling in his dark eyes. He whispered hoarsely, “You’ll never replace her.”

You met his glare, unflinching. “And I don’t care to try.”

The flames continued to burn, and with them, perhaps, the last remnants of a ghost you could never compete with.