Chapter Three
The silence of the boardroom was a tangible thing, Rachel—no, Raven—confidently stood in the doorway.
She could almost taste the shock etched on the faces of the executives and employees strategically placed around the shiny mahogany table.
This was power: raw, unfiltered, and seductive.
"Raven," a man stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He had thinning gray hair that was slicked back and glasses dangling on the bridge of his nose. "We thought you were…"
"Dead?" Rachel interrupted him, her red lips curling into a mischievous smile. She walked into the room, the marble floor echoing harshly with the click of her heels. "You thought wrong."
The whispers escalated, and Rachel allowed them to simmer while she walked around the table. She had an aura that demanded attention, and for the first time in her life, she was in total control.
The man who had spoken earlier—Peter, as per the nameplate before him—cleared his throat. "Raven, the media frenzy has been… unprecedented. The agency is in damage control mode. Your 'death' has sparked a bidding war over the rights to your last photoshoot. We were poised to—"
"To what? Bury my career?" Rachel retorted, bringing her manicured hand down on the table. The sound it made echoed around the room. "Just so we're clear, I'm not going anywhere," she continued. "And if anyone dares to make me feel like a ghost, they'll definitely regret it."
The boldness of her words left Peter and the others momentarily stunned. For a second Rachel thought maybe she had gone too far, but then silence was broken by a slow clap.
"Now this is the Raven I remember." A woman in a fitted navy suit reclined in her chair with a smirk on her lips. Her keen blue eyes locked onto Rachel's face, conveying a balance of interest and endorsement. "Bold. Fearless. Unapologetic."
Rachel forced herself not to look away, though her heart was racing. Whoever this woman was, she struck Rachel as the kind of person not to be trifled with.
"Thank you," Rachel said smoothly, getting back her composure. "But now let's get down to what matters. The media wants a story? I'll give them one." She turned her eyes to Peter. "Book a press conference soon. I want the world to see that I'm alive, doing well, and unattainable."
Peter hesitated, glancing at the others for support. When none came, he nodded reluctantly. "Of course, Raven. Whatever you say."
Satisfied, Rachel took the seat at the head of the table, crossing her legs elegantly. "Good. Now, tell me what I missed while I was… 'gone.'"
---
Later that evening, Rachel returned to Raven's penthouse, her head spinning with a cocktail of excitement and fear. It had been such a crazy day, and though she had played the part of being confident well, inside she knew this couldn't last.
The penthouse was as opulent as she remembered: floor-to-ceiling windows provided an unobstructed view of the city skyline, contemporary furnishings were kept perfectly arranged, and a faint odor of lavender hung in the air.
She kicked off her heels and poured herself a glass of wine from the sleek bar in the corner. As she sipped, her gaze fell on the laptop she'd used earlier. The screen was still open to the search results for Raven Craslow.
Setting the glass down, she walked over and resumed her research. Every article, every scandal, every photo was a piece of the puzzle she needed to solve. But the more she read, the more questions arose.
Why had Raven been on that yacht alone? Where were her so-called friends and entourage? And most importantly, why had Rachel woken up in Raven's body?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the chime of the penthouse intercom. Frowning, she approached the panel on the wall and pressed the button.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice cautious.
"Miss Craslow, there's a delivery for you," a concierge's voice replied.
"A delivery?"
"Yes, ma'am. Shall I send it up?"
Rachel hesitated. A delivery this late? She didn't recall ordering anything. But refusing it might raise suspicion. "Send it up," she said finally.
A few minutes later, the elevator dinged, and a bellhop stepped out, carrying a sleek black box tied with a crimson ribbon. He handed it to her with a polite nod before disappearing back into the elevator.
Rachel placed the box on the kitchen counter and stared at it for a long time. The packaging was both elegant and ominous. She took a deep breath, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid.
Inside, there lay one envelope on a bed of black velvet. The envelope had the initials of Raven embossed: RC. Rachel's hands trembled a little as she opened it and unfolded the note inside.
"Welcome back, Raven. You can't escape who you are. We'll be in touch."
Her heart dropped. The words were vague but chilling. Whoever had sent this knew the truth—or at least part of it.
Rachel's mind raced. Was this a warning? A threat? Or something else entirely?
She flipped the note over, expecting a clue, but the other side was blank. Her gaze fell on the box, but that gave no answer either.
The door suddenly knocked, making her jump, the sound of her heartbeats in her ears. She snatched a kitchen knife from the counter before she advanced towards the door warily.
"Who is it?" she called out, her voice steady despite the fear boiling inside her.
"Clarissa," came the familiar voice from earlier.
Relief flooded through her, but it was short-lived. Why would Clarissa show up unannounced, especially after their brief phone call?
Rachel opened the door just enough to peek through. Clarissa stood there, her expression unreadable.
"We need to talk," Clarissa said, stepping inside before Rachel could protest.
"Nice to see you too," Rachel muttered, closing the door and setting the knife down on a nearby table.
Clarissa's eyes scanned the penthouse before landing on the open black box. Her face hardened.
"Where did you get that?" she demanded.
Rachel blinked. "It was delivered earlier. Why?"
Clarissa's jaw tightened, and she grabbed the note, quickly reading it as her face paled. "This is bad. Really bad."
"What do you mean?" Rachel asked, her stomach twisting.
Clarissa looked at her, fear evident in her eyes. "It means they know you're alive. And they're coming for you."
Rachel felt the blood drain from her face. "Who's 'they'?"
Clarissa opened her mouth to answer, but a loud crash from the balcony cut her off. Both women turned toward the sound, their bodies tensing.
"Stay here," Clarissa whispered, pulling a small handgun from her purse.
"Wait—what are you doing with that?" Rachel hissed, but Clarissa was already moving toward the balcony, her steps silent and deliberate.
Rachel's heart pounded as Clarissa slipped through the sliding glass door. Seconds dragged into eternity, the silence an unbearable weight.
Then came a scream—sharp, piercing, and abruptly cut off.
Rachel's blood froze. She again picked the knife, her grip tight as she approached the balcony.
"Clarissa?" she called out, her voice trembling.
No answer.
The city lights were miles away as she stepped onto the balcony. Then she noticed a dark figure melting into the night as it descended the building.
Clarissa was gone.
And Rachel was alone.