Nicholas went quiet on the other end.
"But guess what?" Connie whispered, her nails tapping the phone. "Her room is empty. And the nurse says she woke up... two days ago."
No reply.
"And get this—" her voice dropped lower, coaxing him like a devil, "—she was discharged. Someone signed for her."
Now Nicholas cursed under his breath. "That's not possible."
Connie smirked. "Well, I didn't make it up. The nurse told me a man came. No name, just a man. Ring any bells?"
Silence.
She added with a sneer, "If you ask me, I think someone's trying to play hero. Trying to hide her. And honestly? I thought you'd want to know before she shows up somewhere and embarrasses you."
Nicholas's voice was sharp now. "She won't. She knows her place."
Connie chuckled. "Do you? Because right now... someone's playing in your backyard. You better figure it out before it gets messy."
She hung up without waiting for a response.
---
Nicholas, who had just rounded up a hectic conference that morning, was on his way back to his office when he received Connie's call.
When the call ended, he felt like he was going crazy, his eyes bloodshot.
Nicholas stared at the blank screen of his phone, Connie's words ringing in his ears like a ticking bomb.
Alive.
The word clawed at the edge of his mind.
He entered his office, first by flipping his desk, then chair, then his documents shelf, until the office turned into a complete mess. Then he rang a bell, and a few janitors came in, cleaning up the mess.
Meanwhile, he stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pulsing heart of the city. The skyline usually soothed him—reflected power, order. But right now, his vision blurred with fury.
"She's alive…" he muttered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.
He ran a hand through his thick black hair, eyes narrowing. "That can't be. I saw the reports. The crash. The flatline."
He walked to a counter that contained a very high percentage of alcohol, poured himself a drink he didn't touch, and paced like a caged animal.
If Celestela was alive... then where the hell was she? And who had taken her?
The thought that someone dared interfere—dared rescue that pitiful, broken girl—made his blood boil.
He hadn't cared when the news broke two days ago that she'd been declared dead. The timing had been perfect, honestly. Neatly tied loose ends. A tragic article. A woman no one would dig too deeply into. And it wasn't like she had anyone left to question it. When he saw it, he was filled with glee. Who would have thought it was all a joke, huh?
That's what made it clean.
But now?
Now there was a crack in the story—and Nicholas hated cracks.
"She should've stayed dead," he whispered.
He tapped his phone again and dialed a number.
"Mr. Fransisco?" his assistant, Jamie, answered instantly.
"Were you aware of any activity regarding Celestela White?"
A pause. "Sir… the hospital already released the declaration of death. There was nothing flagged beyond—"
"She's alive," Nicholas snapped. "She was discharged two days ago. Someone signed her out."
Jamie stammered. "T-that's not possible, sir. The paperwork was—"
"Find out who did it. Who signed. Who got access. I want names, I want footage, and I want it today."
"Yes, sir."
Nicholas ended the call and crushed the untouched glass in his hand. Shards fell like ice.
"Celestela…" he muttered, staring at the blood pooling in his palm. "You really crawled out of the grave, huh?"
He smiled.
A cruel, entertained sort of smile.
"She still thinks this is a game. Still thinks she can come back to a world I already erased her from."
His eyes darkened as he stared at the city again. "Let's see how long you last."
---
Meanwhile, Celestelle was still enjoying her ride back home and didn't know the storm she had caused. She hadn't started anything and they were already jumping like frogs. If she knew this, she would have laughed with glee.
The car sped past tall, glistening towers and rows of expensive boutiques, toward the exclusive gated enclave known as Shawn Vila. Inside the car, Celestelle—still getting used to her new name and body—pressed her fingers lightly against the window, her thoughts running wild. The luxury of the vehicle didn't distract her. Nothing could.
Zachary had left a deep impression for Celestelle.
"Hmph. He just dumped me like cargo," she muttered.
The driver, a silent, dark-suited man, glanced at her through the rearview mirror but quickly returned his attention to the road. He'd been given strict instructions—no engagement, no questions.
Celestelle sighed and leaned back.
As the car pulled into the estate grounds, she sat up straighter.
Shawn Vila wasn't a house—it was a fortress.
A sprawling manor of cold gray stone, surrounded by thick walls and guarded gates. Security cameras lined every corner, and uniformed men stood at attention like soldiers.
Celestelle let out a low whistle. "Well, this doesn't scream warm husband and sweet romance. More like a Bond villain with a superiority complex."
The driver didn't even blink.
She stepped out of the car, heels clicking against the polished stones, which had seemed awkward at first, but soon she got used to it. But the steps were still awkward. Before she could explore further, a middle-aged man in a formal black suit approached her.
"Madam," he said, bowing slightly. "Welcome to Shawn Vila. The Master is not available at the moment, but you have been expected. I will guide you to your room," the butler said—as they had all been notified about expecting a madam soon.
Master?
Celestelle raised a brow. What was this, the 1800s?
Still, she followed.
As they walked deeper into the estate, her gaze swept over the lavish furnishings, the cold elegance of the halls, the silence.
Everything about this place was calculated, emotionless.
So this was where Mr. Vale lived? Hmm.
Celestelle's grin returned."