"Punishment? Death by beheading!!!"
Celestine watched in disbelief as the words rolled out of the lips of the man she loved. All she had ever wanted was to love and protect him, and for him to love her in return. Instead, her hands were bound, her knees pressed hard against the execution platform.
The blade glinted above her like a second sun. Her eyes were as red as blood, yet not a single tear fell.
Celestine's eyes glanced at the man she loved, his hands locked tightly with her sister's.
Helpless. Small. Fragile.
Her head rested on his chest, pretending to be hurt and irritated by the very sight of Celestine, while enjoying every moment of it.
Sickening.
Celestine's eyes swept across the sea of faces twisted with hatred. Faces she once believed wouldn't dare look her in the eyes now pointed fingers, echoing the words, "Behead the witch! Behead the evildoer!"
Their voices roared like thunder, shaking the very platform she knelt upon.
Her gaze drifted downward. Her breath grew heavy as she sighted the broken figure slumped before the stage.
Her father.
The proud Marquis Damascus Varon Dulf. Reduced to nothing but a mutilated shadow of himself.
One eye gouged out. His tongue ripped from his mouth. His limbs severed as punishment.
His remaining eye, unfocused, still searched for her, as though desperate to protect her even in that moment.
"Any last words?" Erik asked.
Celestine lifted her head. The angry mob that had been howling for her death had gone quiet.
Her throat burned. Her wrists bled from the tightening rope biting into her skin. Her father's blood stained the platform where she knelt.
She clenched her fists.
"Yes… yes, I do." Her voice cut through the silence.
"To Lucian…" she called, lifting her chin slightly, an unsettling smile curling on her lips. "My beloved."
A murmur rose among the crowd.
"I never regretted loving you," Celestine said, her eyes locked onto his, wild and desperate despite the blood on her temples.
Lucian's fingers twitched at his side, but his expression remained cold as ice.
Her breath hitched.
"My only regret," she exhaled, a soft laugh escaping her lips, "was being overcome by them."
"Even in this very moment, you still cling to the love of a man who wants nothing to do with you," Crown Prince Erik scoffed.
Celestine's gaze drifted past him, sweeping over the faces twisted with hatred, disgust, and anger.
She had not been a saint. But if this was the punishment for being true to herself, if this was the price for loving, she accepted her fate.
"How pathetic," Prince Erik mocked, his eyes wild, lips slowly revealing a grin.
Celestine's eyes remained locked on Lucian, as he finally turned his face away. A small smile tugged at her lips as a single tear rolled down her cheek.
Her eyes held no anger. No hate.
Only warmth, as of one who had just witnessed the sunrise of a new day.
To Celestine, it was better that the last thing she saw was the face of the man she loved. And to Lucian, it felt like a nightmare.
Erik lifted his hand.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
And, in one swift, merciless motion, Celestine's head rolled clean, thudding against the wooden platform, bouncing to a stop at the foot of the scaffold.
Her body collapsed seconds later, hitting the floor with a dull slam. Her eyes remained wide open, lifeless, and a faint smile still lingered, etched upon her lips.
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆♡☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Ray staggered through the snow, legs trembling beneath her as she fought her way up the stairs to her apartment door.
She was cold. Cold like someone who had jumped naked into a frozen lake, yet her insides burned. Heat curled in her stomach. Her head spun, ringing like church bells, and for a second she thought the night sky tilted with her.
Ray was drunk. Too drunk to realize she had been sticking the wrong side of her keys into the lock for three minutes straight. Finally getting it right, she pushed the door open, rushed inside, dropped everything in her hands, kicked off her shoes, and went straight to the bathroom.
She plunged her head into the toilet, releasing what felt like her entire organs into it.
After about a minute, she was done. The spinning stopped. Ray rested her head against the bathroom door, gasping for air. She might have overdone the celebration a bit, she thought.
Ray had just released the final chapter of her webnovel online.
It was finally over, and she wanted to celebrate, even though it almost cost her life after drinking eight bottles of beer on an empty stomach.
Ray reached into her pocket and grabbed her phone. She remembered receiving a bunch of emails and calls while celebrating but had chosen to ignore them.
Deep down, she knew what it was about. At the time, she had been too drunk to care, and throwing up had sobered her slightly.
Scrolling through her calls and emails, she saw she had missed thirteen calls from her editor and two emails from her publishing platform.
She gulped.
Hell had broken loose, she could feel it. Without a second thought, Ray rushed to her novel's page. Her screen lit up with notifications, comments pouring in like a storm she couldn't outrun.
"I can't believe I waited a whole year for this trashy ending," one wrote.
"What a waste of time," another added.
"Piece of sh*t."
Ray scrolled, shock crawling up her spine as the hateful comments kept coming. They seemed endless.
Then another notification came in, sharp enough to slice her skull even in her half-drunk state. A message from her editor:
Fix the ending or your contract will be terminated.
A wave of shock engulfed her. She scoffed.
Soon enough, the shock melted into heat—furious, nauseating heat—as more comments flooded her screen.
"She always does this in all her novels…"
"A terrible ending and a terrible writer."
"Even my dog can write a better ending than this, lol."
Ray's jaw clenched. Her hands trembled as she typed back, "If you think so, then why don't you go write your own ending?"
"Ok, I will, lol."
Ray was infuriated. She hadn't expected a reply, but she didn't care either way. She switched off her phone just as more notifications piled up—scolding her, calling her rude, demanding an apology to a fan who, as they claimed, was "only telling the truth."
True or not, it enraged her. She was exhausted, still slightly drunk, and unbearably sleepy. Ray stumbled toward her bed, knocking into the couch and desk before collapsing onto the mattress with her clothes still on.
She was too exhausted to deal with any drama tonight. Tomorrow would have to wait.
It was supposed to be a happy night. Memorable, even.
Well—either way, it was going to be one. The day Ray de Grassi's story ending became the worst in the history of stories.
Ray stared at the ceiling, eyelids heavy, before sleep claimed her and darkness swallowed her whole.
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆♡☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Ray stirred, her body heavy as she walked on numb legs toward the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water, trying to ease the dryness in her throat and the dull throb in her head.
She felt sick. And without needing to look in a mirror, she knew she looked so.
She glanced at the clock in the living room. Almost twelve. A few minutes until Christmas, and Santa still hadn't paid her a visit, she thought.
She walked past the living room, heading back to bed….
She froze.
Her eyes drifted toward the apartment door.
Wide open. A pitch-black hallway beyond it.
Her heart dropped. She scanned the room until her eyes landed on an empty wine bottle beside her bed.
She grabbed it instantly, fingers tightening around the glass. Ray counted her steps, gaze fixed on the doorway, trying to make out any movement within the shadows.
She reached the door and slammed it shut, locking it this time.
Ray pressed her back against it, trying to calm her racing heart. She realized then that she had been so scared, she'd forgotten to breathe.
"I'm never getting drunk again," she murmured—a phrase she'd used so often it had almost become a reality.
Needing to cool off, Ray headed to the bathroom. It was dark, but she knew her way well enough not to turn on the light. She turned on the faucet, letting cool water run through her fingers before splashing it onto her face.
She knew she looked a mess. Her instincts urged her to check.
Ray flicked on the light.
She froze.
A figure in a black hooded sweater lunged forward.
Ray jerked aside just in time. The attacker missed, crashing into the mirror as it shattered into pieces.
She stumbled and hit the floor, but adrenaline pushed her back up. A hand grabbed her hair, yanking her backward with force. Ray cried out, swung her arm, and used her full weight to shove him into the wall, knocking down a row of portraits and a vase.
Ray bolted toward the table, grabbed her phone—only to realize it was switched off. She had powered it down before bed. It would take time to turn on.
Thinking fast, she ran to the kitchen counter and grabbed the empty wine bottle, raising it—
Too late.
The man snatched a nearby vase and smashed it against her head.
Pain exploded through her skull as she collapsed, her head striking the ground first.
Warm blood dripped down her temple, spreading across the floor.
Through her haze, she saw the hooded man flee, panicked, faceless.
Her phone finally powered on beside her, chiming softly. With shaking, bloody hands, Ray reached for it as more notifications flooded the screen. She managed to dial 911—
But before the call connected, her body went limp.