The Starlet and the Spectre
Nobody expected the show’s engineered crisis—a mechanical wolf meant to add a dash of drama—to malfunction. Nobody expected it to hunt me with single-minded, metallic fury.
And certainly, nobody expected me, under the unflinching eye of a dozen drone cameras, to snap a branch from a dead tree, sharpen it on a rock in three fluid motions, and pin the machine to the forest floor with one clean, powerful thrust through its synthetic heart.
Later, staring blankly into a drone lens, I offered my only explanation.
“I grew up in the country.”
A pause.
“We had a hog farm. You learn a thing or two about butchering. It’s practical, right?”
1
The day I retired, my handler—Director K—placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. His voice was as gravelly and devoid of emotion as ever.
“Spectre,” he said, using my call sign. “You’ve lived up to the name. For years, you’ve been the sharpest point of The Blade. You’ve earned your rest.”
He stared at me with those piercing gray eyes. “The organization will grant you one request for your new life. Anything.”
A thrill, the first I’d felt in years that wasn’t followed by the scent of blood, shot through me. My eyes, I’m sure, lit up with visions of a life I’d only ever seen in movies.
“My new life?” I leaned forward, my voice practically buzzing. “I want it all. The glamour, the scandal, the mindless decadence. I want to burn through money, dance until dawn, and be utterly, gloriously frivolous.”
Director K’s perpetually grim face twitched. It was the closest I’d ever seen him come to a smile. He nodded slowly, the picture of managerial solemnity.
“Understood,” he said. “You want to experience the rewarding, hands-on labor of a federal penitentiary. An excellent choice for personal growth.”
I blinked.
A week later, the organization unceremoniously dropped me into the glittering cesspool of Los Angeles.
According to K, it had all the glamour and decadence I’d asked for, but the paychecks were, technically, legal.
Three years later, my unblinking stare and an acting ability so wooden a director once famously declared me “splinter-proof” had cemented my status as Hollywood’s Ice Queen.
While the gossip blogs and internet trolls debated which powerful producer I was sleeping with to maintain my career, no one could possibly guess the truth. That I was Spectre, the top field operative for The Blade, a clandestine organization that operated in the shadows to protect national interests. That I held the standing record for a solo infiltration: thirty elite hostiles neutralized in under five minutes. A record that remained unbroken.
If The Blade was the ghost that guarded the country, I was the ghost that other ghosts feared.
Back then, they had a saying in the underworld: “A glimpse of the Spectre is the Reaper’s kiss.”
2
“Declan, don’t look back!”
I woke with a gasp, the words torn from my throat. The air in the cheap production tent was humid and stale, and cold sweat slicked my forehead.
Outside, a voice dripped with saccharine poison.
“Well, well. Some people really think this is a vacation, don’t they?” The voice belonged to Isabelle Vance, Hollywood’s reigning sweetheart and a rising star known for her girl-next-door charm and fiercely loyal fanbase. “An ice queen with nothing to offer but a pretty face, having nightmares in broad daylight. How unlucky for the rest of us.”
She let out a fake little laugh. “And shouting a man’s name? Desperate for a little attention, are we?”
Isabelle and I were at the same agency, but we were oil and water. Being cast on the same show was a carefully engineered ratings ploy. It was working.
The phantom heat of the explosion still clung to my skin, my heart hammering against my ribs. It took me a few seconds to focus on the swaying palm trees and the painfully bright sunlight outside. A few seconds to remember.
Declan was already dead.
The man who was all easy smiles and infuriating charm, the one who always managed to shield me in the moments when death felt certain, had been vaporized in that firestorm. There was nothing left to bury.
Only then did her words fully register.
I pushed open the tent flap, squinting against the light. “What did you say? About a man?”
Isabelle crossed her arms, her eyes raking over me with disdain. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you. I’m talking about Mr. Scott, of course. The mysterious heir to the Sterling-Scott fortune.”
She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper meant for the hidden camera I knew was clipped to a nearby tree. “A piece of advice? A blank slate like you could never hope to catch the eye of a man like Dylan Scott. So don’t even try.”
She smiled, a triumphant, venomous little thing. “I, on the other hand, am the only actress who received a personal invitation to his charity auction next month. It’s being held on The Stratos, his private jumbo jet. I hear Mr. Scott will be there personally.” Her smile widened. “I have a feeling he and I will find we have a great deal in common.”
“As for you,” she finished, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “you couldn’t even get a ticket to the airport.”
I watched her, this preening, posturing fool, and felt the ghost of a real smile touch my lips. It felt foreign.
“You should probably get some more Botox before you go,” I suggested, my voice flat. “The crow’s feet around your eyes are deep enough to lose a dime in. You wouldn’t want to scare Mr. Scott away.”
I let my gaze drift over her. “And for the record? When you’re born with a face like this, you don’t have to try. You wouldn’t understand, but I don’t blame you.”
3
After my little chat with Isabelle, I tracked down the show’s director and demanded the use of his satellite phone.
He stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. To be fair, less than an hour ago, I had twisted the head clean off his thousand-pound mechanical wolf.
I just stared back.
Three seconds later, he was handing me the phone like a holy relic.
The moment the call connected, I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Jenna! That charity auction next month, the one on The Stratos. You have to get me in.”
The line went silent for a full thirty seconds. The only sound was the wind rustling through the jungle canopy. Just as I was about to lose my patience, my agent’s weary voice came through.
“Sweetheart. You mean the auction that sent you a gilded, hand-delivered invitation three weeks ago? The one you immediately ran through the office shredder because, and I quote, ‘attending a pointless social gathering is a criminal waste of my finite existence’?”
Right. That had happened.
At the time, the idea of sipping champagne and making small talk with a bunch of billionaires sounded less appealing than a root canal. Besides, Isabelle’s PR team had already flooded the blogs with stories about her being the “exclusive celebrity guest.” I had no desire to play second fiddle and give her a free publicity boost.
I cleared my throat, my tone shifting from demanding to syrupy sweet. “Right. About that. I know I was wrong, Jenna, you know I’m impulsive! Please don’t be mad.” I took a breath. “Out of curiosity, what was the appearance fee they offered?”
Jenna’s sigh was heavy enough to be felt across continents. “One million dollars.”
I didn’t hesitate. “A waste of my existence? Who cares! For a million bucks, I’d sell my soul and do a little dance while I’m at it! Jenna, you’re the best. Make it happen!”
Jenna…
Declan Shaw… Dylan Scott…
I knew the odds of it being a coincidence were astronomical. I knew it was impossible. But deep inside me, in a place I thought had long turned to ash, a tiny, stubborn ember flickered back to life.
Even if there was only a one-in-a-billion chance.
I had to see for myself.
4
Jenna, being the miracle worker she was, pulled a string so obscure even I was impressed and secured me an invitation at the eleventh hour.
As the most exclusive private aircraft in the world, The Stratos hosting a gala for the global elite was a media frenzy. The live streams were pulling in millions of viewers before the first guest even stepped on board.
[Holy crap! It’s finally happening! I’ve never seen a plane this insane!]
[An auction in the sky. Rich people are a different species.]
[Look! It’s Isabelle Vance! That white dress is stunning. A true goddess!]
[Did you guys hear the rumor? A major mystery guest is supposed to be on board!]
[Yeah, I heard that too! The head of some secret global conglomerate or something…]
[It’s gotta be for Isabelle! They’d be the ultimate power couple!]
[Ugh, why is Ava Sterling there? She probably bribed her way on. So tacky.]
I leaned against the curved window, scrolling through the comments on my phone with a profound sense of boredom. The hate was just background noise at this point.
Suddenly, a quiet, powerful voice spoke from behind me.
“I never thought I’d have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
The voice was old, but the tone was firm.
“Miss Spectre.”
5
I had heard the soft tread of his expensive shoes approaching, so the voice wasn’t a surprise. I turned slowly and gave a slight nod of my head.
“Mr. Peterson. It’s good to see you looking so well.”
The man was Marcus Peterson, a titan of industry and a true patriot. Over the decades, he’d funneled billions from his tech empire into national interests, from scientific research to infrastructure. His personal motto was famous: “The nation is the foundation; business is just the scaffolding.”
As his influence grew, he’d become a target for foreign powers. At one point, a consortium of his rivals had pooled their resources and hired one of the world’s top ten mercenary guilds to put a kill order on him.
My mission had been to provide close protection.
In one month, I made sure that mercenary guild ceased to exist.
He was the only person outside of The Blade who knew my real identity.
Before we could say more, a flurry of motion and camera flashes interrupted us. Isabelle Vance, flanked by a gaggle of reporters and assistants, swept toward us like a queen holding court.
One reporter shoved a microphone forward. “Isabelle, the internet is buzzing that you’re here tonight as a special guest of honor. Can you confirm a personal relationship with the mysterious Mr. Scott?”
Isabelle didn’t answer directly, offering instead a shy, demure smile. “I think we should all focus on the wonderful charity this event is supporting. It’s better to keep a little mystery in life, don’t you think?”
A wave of knowing murmurs and excited gasps rippled through the press pool. I had to physically restrain myself from laughing out loud. Her non-denial-denial was a masterclass in PR manipulation. I was willing to bet her own team had planted the rumors online. After all, no one in the world could have possibly traced my invitation back to me.
Perhaps my smirk was a little too obvious. Isabelle’s gaze snapped to me, her eyes narrowing. Then she saw who I was standing with.
Her entire demeanor shifted. Her eyes lit up with craven opportunity. She glided over, high heels clicking on the polished floor, the cameras trailing her like pilot fish.
“Ava Sterling. You are just everywhere, aren’t you?” she said, her voice loud enough for every microphone to catch. “I thought you turned down the invitation. What happened? The moment you heard Mr. Scott would be here, you came crawling back?” She gestured towards Marcus. “And now you’re harassing Mr. Peterson? Honestly, your methods are so predictable. Some of us in this industry try to maintain a little dignity.”
Just like that, she’d painted me as a desperate, social-climbing harpy. As she intended, the live stream chat exploded.
[OMG I’m cringing so hard. Ava is so pathetic!]
[First she’s a bad actress, now we know she has no morals either!]
Having successfully trashed me, Isabelle turned a dazzling smile on Marcus Peterson and extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Mr. Peterson, it is such an honor. I’ve admired your work for years. I’ve always hoped for a chance to meet you.”
Marcus Peterson was a legend. A few soundbites with him, caught on camera, would elevate Isabelle’s brand from mere celebrity to a serious public figure. A brilliant move.
Except for one small problem.
Marcus didn’t even glance at her outstretched hand. He simply stared at her as if she were a mildly interesting insect, his expression utterly flat.
“I doubt that,” he said, his voice cold enough to freeze champagne. “My own company’s CEO has to book an appointment six months in advance to see me. Who, exactly, are you?”
Isabelle’s face went from pristine white to a blotchy, mortified crimson. The silence in the cabin was so absolute you could hear the hum of the engines.
Into that silence, Marcus turned back to me. With the deep, formal respect a knight might show a queen, he made a slight bow.
“Miss Spectre,” he said, his voice resonating with warmth. “Would I have the honor of buying you a drink in the lounge?”
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