Dead Girls Walk Quietly

They say the dead can’t feel cold.

Then why the hell are my fingers trembling?

The wind slapped my face as I stepped out of the car, coat wrapped tight around me like armor. My heels hit the pavement like a countdown — sharp, deliberate, final. I stood in front of the Westwood Global building for the first time in five years. Same towering glass walls. Same silver logo. Same smell of blood disguised as expensive cologne.

No one here knew I used to be Nia Morgan.

And if I had my way, they never would.

I wasn’t here for attention. I wasn’t here for closure. I was here for answers.

And maybe… a little revenge.

“Welcome to Westwood Global,” the security guard said with a forced smile as I flashed my fake ID badge. “Elise Ward, right?”

I nodded. “First day.”

He scanned the badge and let me through.

The lobby swallowed me whole marble floors, glass ceilings, people pretending to be busy while hiding behind oversized handbags and fake smiles. I knew this world. I used to be part of it. Before they tried to bury me.

I moved like a ghost. In and out of conversations. A “hi,” a nod, a harmless smile. I knew better than to stand out. That’s the rule. Dead girls walk quietly.

The elevator dinged.

Seventh floor. PR Department. My new battlefield.

“Hi, you must be Elise.” A woman with high cheekbones and a nervous laugh greeted me with a little too much cheer. “I’m Talia, your supervisor. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Her heels clicked beside mine as she talked non-stop — office layouts, lunch schedules, don’t-be-late warnings. I didn’t care. My eyes were scanning the floor. The names. The doors.

The one that mattered sat at the far end, frosted glass and gold letters:

DAMIEN WESTWOOD – CEO

And just like that, my stomach twisted.

Five years and that name still hit me like a car crash.

He used to call me “firefly.” Said I lit up rooms. That I made him forget who his father was. That I made him feel human.

He never came looking for me.

The night someone tried to kill me, I bled out on cold concrete and begged the moon not to let me die. I didn’t call him. I couldn’t. He would’ve picked his father over me. Maybe he already had.

So I disappeared.

Rina burned every trace of Nia Morgan to ash. Hospital records. Student files. Even my social media, like I’d never existed. For five years, I trained. Watched. Waited. And now I was standing inside the belly of the beast.

"That’s your desk,” Talia said, snapping me out of my spiral. “Coffee’s horrible but free. We do morning check-ins at ten. Damien might walk through, but he usually keeps to himself.”

Good. Let him keep to himself. Because if he saw me up close...

God, would he know?

Would he see past the shorter hair, the subtle surgeries, the new voice, and smell the rot of truth beneath?

I settled into my new desk, ignoring the buzz of coworkers gossiping about last night’s party. My fingers found the keyboard like an old friend. Click, tap, type. A cover identity only works if you live it.

My phone buzzed.

Rina: You in?

I typed back with one hand:

Me: Yeah. They bought it.

Rina: Surprised you didn’t punch anyone yet.

Me: It’s only been an hour.

I smirked, a rare thing these days. Rina had a way of pulling something human out of me, even when I felt like nothing more than a loaded gun pretending to be a woman.

But the smile faded when the door opened.

Damien walked in.

Tall. Sharp. Dangerous in the quietest way. He wore a black suit like a weapon. Hair slicked back, jaw tighter than I remembered, eyes scanning the room like he owned it.

He did.

He stopped two desks away. Talked to someone about numbers, projections, deadlines. His voice hadn’t changed smooth and low like it was meant for secrets.

Then his eyes brushed past me.

For half a second, just half… they stopped.

I didn’t breathe.

He blinked. Looked again.

And then moved on.

My hands were steady, but inside, my heart was punching the walls of my ribs like it was trying to escape.

He didn’t recognize me.

He looked into my face the one I practiced in the mirror for months — and saw a stranger.

Good.

Let him.

Let him think I was just another intern, another assistant, another nobody in the machine he helped build.

Because I wasn’t here to remind him of the woman he lost.

I was here to destroy the empire that murdered her.

Lunch came and went. Talia kept chatting. I kept nodding. I hacked into the internal server by 2 PM and copied a folder labeled “Private—Board Access Only.”

Inside: transaction reports, flagged emails, offshore account summaries.

Bingo.

I sent them to Rina with a single word:

“Start digging.”

At 4:30 PM, a voice startled me.

“You’re new.”

I turned slowly.

Damien Westwood.

Up close.

The air thickened.

He looked at me like a man looking at a painting he swears he’s seen before. Something in his gaze burned.

“Elise,” I said. “Elise Ward.”

He tilted his head. “You look… familiar.”

I smiled like I didn’t want to slap him. “Guess I’ve got one of those faces.”

He nodded, but didn’t move. Just kept looking. Then, just before walking away, he said quietly:

“Have we met before?”

I lied without flinching. “No.”

But my pulse whispered something different.

You loved me once.

Then you watched me die.

And now?

Now I’m here to make sure you remember, Even if it kills me