"Take her to Shawn Vila," Zachary said.
Celestelle was puzzled. Suddenly, her eyes glinted with mist, then she looked at him with a hint of accusation.
Zachary was taken aback. Had he done something? But thinking back, he really hadn't done anything.
"Are you not coming with me?" Celestelle asked, with pouty lips.
Zachary flicked her head, then slammed the door with a loud bang, walking away as if being chased on his feet.
Celestelle sat at the edge of the car window, arms crossed, watching the dust trail left behind by Zachary's retreating car.
"Tch." She clicked her tongue and muttered, "Asshole."
The black-suited driver beside her cleared his throat gently, as if to remind her she wasn't alone. His expression was stoic, eyes trained forward, but even she could sense the awkwardness.
"Let me guess," she said dryly, turning to him, "you're not the chatty type?"
Silence.
She sighed, pushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. "Fine. Let's get it over with. Take me to this... Shawn Vila."
The driver started the car immediately on her command, and without another word, he drove away.
The interior design of the car was cool, leather-scented, and far too quiet for her liking. Nothing close to the carriage she had ridden in her past life with no comfy seat like this and cold wind coming from the car.
Her mind raced during the drive, filled with what her next step could be—getting married to a wealthy, powerful tycoon at the civil affair bureau—which could have been the hardest, but it had come to her before she could even start searching. The next agenda for her now was trying to understand the modern world and how it works so she doesn't keep embarrassing herself. Then she moved to dealing with everyone who was the cause of Celestela's death.
Then Zachary's face flashed in her view, and her eyes glinted with malice, already thinking of possible ways he could pay for how he treated her today.
She frowned.
He really left just like that?
No goodbye. No explanation. Just a flick on the forehead and slam.
Her chest tightened—not out of heartbreak, but from the reminder of what she'd thrown herself into. A paper marriage to a man she hadn't even seen yet. All for revenge.
She leaned her head against the window, watching trees blur by. "Mr. Vale, huh…" she murmured.
Everyone around her spoke his name like a ghost story. He was powerful, untouchable, and apparently... in need of a fake wife?
Celestelle's lips curled into a smirk. "Well, Mr. Vale... I hope you're ready. Because your 'wife' doesn't follow rules."
—---
A woman was walking down the corridor, her back straight, heels clicking softly against the polished floor with each measured step. Her long caramel-brown hair flowed in styled waves down her back, swaying slightly with her stride. Tall and slim, she moved with quiet confidence, dressed in a fitted black coat that clung to her elegant frame.
Her hazel eyes scanned the hospital hallway with sharp focus, framed by long lashes and a perfectly drawn brow. There was no warmth in her gaze—only calculation. Glossed lips pressed into a thin line, her expression unreadable, cool, and composed. Every detail about her appearance—from her flawless nails to the subtle designer scent trailing in her wake—whispered of control, image, and quiet ambition.
She was Connie.
The stepsister to Celestela.
Connie stood at the end of the long, sterile hallway, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Her stilettos clicked softly against the floor as she approached Room 306, the familiar door she had visited—mockingly whispered into—countless times over the past three months.
She twisted the knob and stepped inside.
Empty.
The bed was made. Pristine white sheets tucked in like a showroom display. The machines—off. The IV stand—gone. Even the faint scent of antiseptic was stronger now, like it was trying to erase something that had existed.
Connie blinked. "What the—"
She spun around and flagged down the nurse who was walking past, clipboard in hand.
"Excuse me. The girl who was here—Celestela? Where is she?" Her voice remained calm, but her fingers clutched her handbag tightly.
The nurse glanced at the door and checked her clipboard before replying casually, "Her pulse returned two days ago. She was discharged today."
Connie's jaw twitched. "Discharged? That's impossible. She doesn't have any family left. And I—" she caught herself before continuing, "—I've been listed as emergency contact. No one called me."
The nurse smiled faintly, already halfway turned away. "A man came. Took care of the paperwork. Seemed official." Then she walked off without another word.
Connie stood frozen, her heart lurching.
A man?
When had Celestela really known someone the opposite gender other than Nicholas himself?
She fumbled with her phone and stormed into the elevator, seething.
Who? she thought wildly, red manicured nails tapping the screen as she pulled up her call log.
She rang three old friends. Two distant cousins. Even that annoying ex-fiancé of one of her friends who had once bought Celestela flowers. Nothing. All dead ends.
She couldn't shake the fury building in her chest. Who had taken Celestela? Why?
Was someone trying to bring that pathetic girl back into the picture—after everything they'd done to bury her?
Her hands trembled. Not from fear. But rage.
And one thing she hated more than being ignored was being left out of the secret.
So she made the call.
"Hello?" a familiar male voice answered on the second ring.
"Nicholas."
A pause. Then a sharp breath. "What?"
Connie leaned against her car door outside the hospital, staring at the sky as if it owed her answers.
"She's alive."
Another pause.
Then laughter. Dry, sarcastic. "What are you talking about?"
"I went to the hospital today," Connie continued, her voice sugary-sweet and venomous underneath. "To see our dear sleeping beauty. You know—Celestela. The girl you said was finished. Gone. News of her death just came out two days ago, didn't it?"