My bedroom 7

The Ghost I Married 

~Julian~ 

The skyline of Manhattan stretched in front of me, bathed in soft light as the sun filtered through thick gray clouds, painting the city in shades of steel and silver. The windows of my high–rise office offered a sweeping view of it all, an empire of glass and concrete, money and power, but none of it felt satisfying anymore. Not the deals. Not the penthouses. Not the silence that lingered long after everyone left for the day. Six years, and I still hadn’t found her. Six fucking years chasing a ghost. 

I sat behind my desk, the corner office a cathedral of success, every inch tailored to me–sleek, minimal, spotless. My assistant had left my schedule printed neatly beside my coffee, which had long since gone cold. The ticking of the designer wall clock was the only sound until I heard the door open without a 

knock. 

“Still brooding?” Zane strolled in like he owned the place. He didn’t, but he was one of the few people who could walk into my space uninvited and live to tell the story. 

I looked up at him, studied the smirk on his face, and knew before he even said a word that he had something to say I wouldn’t like. 

“By the way you look,” I said dryly, “I’m guessing you’ve got the results.” 

Zane leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, always relaxed, always amused. “Six years, man. You’ve been searching for six damn years.” 

“And?” 

“And maybe it’s time to stop. Let her go, Julian. You’re getting married. The Kensington girl.” 

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for a second. My temples throbbed. The Kensington girl, Jesus fucking Christ. 

“I don’t even know what’s going on with that family,” I muttered. “At first, I was betrothed to Katia. Then they switched it to Delia. Like I’m a fucking product on clearance.” 

Zane chuckled. “Well, you kind of are. You’re the Windsor heir. People expect you to marry like it’s chess.” 

gave him a look. “I don’t even know what Delia looks like.” 

“You don’t have to,” he said with a shrug. “It’s not a love match. You’re marrying her for your grandmother. Duty. Legacy. All that Windsor shit.” 

“If not for Grandma…” I trailed off. 

“If not for Grandma, you’d still be playing Phantom King in Vegas and chasing a girl whose name you 

don’t know.” 

I said nothing. 

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Zane pushed off the wall and pulled out his phone. “Well, since you’re marrying Delia Kensington, you might as well know what she looks like.” 

I raised an eyebrow as he tapped on his screen and handed me the phone. I*******m. Of course. A carefully curated feed of designer clothes, overpriced cocktails, vacations in Bali and Saint–Tropez, and the kind of artificial smiles you see on department store mannequins. Delia was pretty, no doubt. Blonde, bright–eyed, and painfully polished. But nothing about her felt real. 

“She’s not my type,” I muttered. 

Zane smirked. “Keep scrolling.” 

I did. And then I stopped. 

A photo, captioned “Happy Birthday, sis“-stared up at me. Two women, side by side, but only one of them made my heart stop. She wasn’t smiling in the usual way. It wasn’t for the camera. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t posing. There was something distant in her expression, like her mind was 

somewhere else. Delia was all teeth and fake affection. But her sister Katia she was…real and beautiful. 

That name was tagged. 

“She’s more my type,” I said quietly. 

Zane nodded. “Katia. The one you were originally promised to.” 

“Random face on the internet, yes,” I muttered, eyes scanning the screen. 

Zane looked over. “Just another Kensington girl?” 

I shook my head. “No. I don’t know. I’m just saying the face looks familiar, that’s all. But my brain doesn’t remember a damn thing.” 

The bitterness in my voice was sharp, even to my own ears. The truth stung more every time I said it. 

“It pains me that I’ve been chasing a ghost for the past years. And now I have to marry some girl named Delia. “I say and then go on. “The pilot told me we were making out in the chopper,” I added, voice low.” Said there were stains, blood on the seat. The staff at the hotel had to burn the sheets. I woke up alone the next morning. With a ring, no name, and no trace of her.” 

Zane winced and leaned back in his chair. “Still can’t believe you went through with it.” 

“I was drugged,” I snapped, rubbing my temple. “Your idea of a bachelor send–off nearly got me married to a stripper.” 

Zane laughed. “That’s slander. She wasn’t a stripper.” 

“Right. And I wasn’t blackout drunk, bleeding, and legally married to a woman I couldn’t describe to a police sketch artist. Your fault, you spiked our drinks.” 

He held up his hands in mock surrender, the usual grin on his face fading slightly. “Tell Grandma yet?” 

I shot him a cold look. 

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“Okay, okay,” he muttered. “I’m just saying… she’s been patient. For a Windsor.” 

I leaned forward and set the phone down on the desk with deliberate control. “You know what pisses me 

off the most?” 

Zane raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

“She’s not looking for me.” 

The silence that followed was heavier than I liked. Zane didn’t speak. Maybe for once, he didn’t know 

what to say. 

“I didn’t imagine this,” I went on, my voice quieter now, sharper. “The papers were real. The license. The ring. The night. It all happened. She married me. My pilot saw us. My lawyers confirmed the registration. So why the hell has she vanished?” 

Zane gave a light shrug. “Maybe she doesn’t remember either.” 

I scoffed. “She remembers. Trust me. You don’t forget getting married in Vegas. Especially not to 

someone like me.” 

He stayed quiet. 

“She’s choosing not to come forward,” I said. 

“She probably thought you were just some drunk idiot with a private jet and a hard–on,” Zane said. “Let’s be real, Julian. That night? That wasn’t exactly your finest moment.” 

“No,” I muttered. “It wasn’t.” 

He stood and stretched like he had all the time in the world. “Anyway. You should go home. Your grandmother’s been asking more questions lately.” 

I stood slowly. “I’ll tell her I lost the ring.” 

Zane froze at the door. “You’re serious?” 

My eyes met his. “Dead serious.” 

He stared at me for a beat, then nodded and left, mumbling under his breath about secrets and stubborn 

men. 

I walked to the window and looked out over Manhattan. The streets were small from up here, ants moving through glass veins. I didn’t see any of it. 

I saw the blackout. The blood. The blurred memory of a voice I couldn’t place. Hands on my skin. A woman’s body in the dark. My ring on her finger. 

But never her face. Not even once. She was gone. And the worst part was, I had no way of finding her. 

She could walk past me on the street, and I wouldn’t even know. She could be anyone. 

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I closed my eyes and tried, one last time, to conjure the memory. A detail. A sound. A name. But there was nothing. Just the flash of heat. Her breath in my ear. Her body under mine. Her voice- 

“Then fuck me.” 

I opened my eyes, my jaw clenched tight. She was gone. But not forgotten. 

I didn’t care who she was. Or why she left. I didn’t care what name she went by now, or if she even wore the ring anymore. 

What I cared about was one simple, irrefutable fact: 

She was mine. 

And one day, sooner or later, I’d find her. Even if I had to tear this city apart. 

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Time to see Grandma. 

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