Celeste Ashford’s heart sank the moment she saw the stark eviction notice sitting on her kitchen counter. The cramped space felt colder than normal, the weathered linoleum and chipped cabinets conspiring to amplify her dread. Daylight seeping through filthy curtains barely softened the words on the paper. Foreclosure. Auction. Final Warning. These words dug deeper than the last. She caught her breath and glanced at the collage of overdue bills littering the table. This was not the life she had envisioned. This was her parents’ kitchen once, and they kept it filled with warmth and laughter — now it was bursting with uncertainty.
She allowed herself to panic but did not let that panic consume her, so she unfurled the rest of the envelopes. A lump caught in her throat as she faced new payment deadlines and terrible options for increasing penalties, all counting down toward an unavoidable date. Her stomach was a restless tide of anxiety. She leaned her shaking fingers against the crumbling wallpaper for help, willing herself not to cry. She didn’t feel tears, she thought, and tears would be a confirmation of defeat. But the gnawing fears of losing the one inheritance her late parents had left behind haunted her.
Her eyes landed on an old family snapshot taped near a half-broken refrigerator magnet. There, her mother’s soft eyes brimmed with kindness, and her father’s wide smile gleamed with unshakeable confidence. Celeste’s own younger face flashed in that photo, innocent of the cruelty life could release. She brushed her fingertips against their image and made a trembling vow: she would keep their memory alive by protecting the house they had loved. With determination, she swallowed hard and decided to figure it out, even if it cost her the last dregs of her dignity.
A jolt of vibration startled her. Raising her phone, she saw a message from Roman Blackwood, her childhood friend and the only person she would ever trust completely. “Keep fighting,” he wrote. She gasped; gratitude and desperation swirled in her chest. Could she really do this fight by herself? She scoured the open eviction notice again, bold black print stark against her pale knuckles. Time was running out. Ruin was one step too close for comfort now, and all she had was a bit of willpower and the vague hope that something, or someone, might help her postpone doom. And even as she bore down on her fragile resolve, a question stole furtively into her mind: would it be enough?
Celeste’s kitchen is filled with morning rays that cast long shadows, but the sun’s golden hue cannot dispel her lingering anxiety. Phone in hand, she yawned wearily, reading Roman’s reassuring text for the fifth time. A faint fizz from across the room drew her attention, the announcer’s clearest, most charming voice reverberating across the airwaves as he heralded the triumphant occasion of Caspian Hayes’s homecoming. She caught her breath, and the phone almost slipped from her fingers. Caspian. Long had she not heard that name. Memories crashed like waves behind her eyes, memories of once-warm romance that had turned sulky and spent without warning.
She forced herself to concentrate on the radio’s babble: “Caspian Hayes, rumoured heir to his father’s empire, is coming to town this week.” The host’s delight pierced her composure. She could see him as he had been — a self-possessed being with penetrating eyes and a quiet smile that had the power to turn her world on its head. But she also remembered heartbreak, secrecy, that gut-wrenching moment she turned away. Why now, when she was already right in the midst of a mess?
An urgent rustle jostled her thoughts: a final letter broke from her messy pile. She knelt down to pick it up, her heart racing at the prospect of ominous foreclosure stamps. She ripped it open, gritting her teeth when she skimmed the hastened timetable for the auction — much earlier than she had anticipated. The pressure behind her eyes built. There was no time left to delay. She looked back at the radio, where Caspian’s name echoed like a lighthouse in the darkness.
Caught between old emotions and harsh reality, she tapped her foot against the worn linoleum. Caspian’s resurgence may be a lifesaver — or a curse. He wasn’t just a distant memory — he was now a powerful businessman with access to a lot of money. But would he ever help her after the way things ended? Perhaps there was a chance. But uncertainty made her sting. Did she really want to crotch back into him after all this time?
She pressed her lips together, she put down the letter and turned off the radio with a trembling hand. She couldn’t meet her eyes, not when facing Caspian had awakened every scabbed over wound. Yet a secret voice mocked that she might have no choice. Her debts grew out of control, and the only man who could rescue her was the very same one who could shatter her heart all over again.
By late afternoon, Celeste was on edge, but Roman demanded she join him at a crowded charity gala. She entered through the red-carpeted entryway of a lavish ballroom, surrounded by twinkling chandeliers and a swirl of guests dressed to the nines. Against the sea of satin and sequins, her unassuming navy dress seemed, at that moment, almost plain. Steady at her side, Roman guided her through cliques of socialites seeking a sympathetic hand to finance their schemes.
She scanned the crowded room with her eyes. Crystal glasses clinked, laughter rippled, and ornate decorations sported wealth she could hardly imagine. Self-consciousness rippled up her spine. Then, with as much subtlety as a lightning bolt, she spotted him. Caspian Hayes had remained standing near the far wall, chatting with some high-profile attendees. He had an air about him—crisp suit, self-assured posture, eyes sweeping the space as if he owned it.
A pang shot through her chest, a memory of when they used to laugh freely, with no hint of bitterness between them. But the man who used to bend close, whispering the plans he cherished for their lives together in her ear, now radiated a prickly chill that froze her from yards away. Their eyes met in a booming second. She felt his features constrict: strong jawline taut, broad shoulders stiff as though anticipating a sudden tempest. Her heart pounded in her ears.
“Celeste,” he said, his voice the opposite of warm. She stammered a greeting, the voice quivering under the weight of their history. He did not respond other than a dismissive nod before walking away. Heat pulsed through her face, mortification and hurt mingling, stabbing her in one blow. Roman put a hand on her shoulder protectively, leading her away before she could drown beneath the looks of curious strangers.
She tried to steady herself and breathe EgorSystem fragrance and floral arrangements. But Caspian’s presence remained. There was a charged tension that churned the atmosphere as if everyone could sense the static humming between them. When she risked a glance back at him, he was watching her again with an unreadable gaze. That look was filled with the shared history — a quiet promise of unspoken regrets and simmering resentment. She swallowed, unsure she was up for the emotional hazard of his return. And when he shot her a final, accusatory look over the crowd, Celeste felt a storm a brew, one that could tear apart the flimsy structure of what was left of her home.