Celeste stood in the main hallway of Caspian’s sprawling estate, gazing down at a thin envelope that confirmed the payment of her mortgage. Relief tempered her trembling fingers. She should have rejoiced; her childhood home was safe at last. Yet unease grew in the back of her mind. She felt like a newcomer in his world, tethered by a contract that offered security but skimmed her freedom.
She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, recalling how her beloved house once bustled with warmth. Now, it remained empty, locked up on the city’s outskirts. Caspian had insisted she reside under his roof, where tall windows and spotless floors exuded affluence. It struck her how easily he had erased the threat of eviction with a single stroke of a pen. Still, that same power reminded her of the chasm between them.
He entered the corridor, footsteps echoing on polished marble. Dressed in a dark suit, his posture exuded poise tempered by a quiet storm of hurt. She caught his gaze for a moment: a flicker of something unspoken—regret, or maybe longing—quickly replaced by a frosty reserve. “The arrears are taken care of,” he said, voice low and measured. She nodded, managing a faint thank you. He turned slightly, expression unreadable. “Don’t mistake this for charity,” he added. “You’re expected to uphold our arrangement.”
Her throat tightened at his firm tone. Once, she recalled his tenderness, how he used to protect her from the world’s sharp edges. Now, his clipped words felt like a barrier. She thought of all that had changed since the day she walked away. She swallowed, murmuring, “I understand.” But the tension in the air spoke volumes about all they couldn’t say.
Every time they crossed paths, the hush that lingered in the mansion’s corridors magnified their discomfort. Staff politely kept their distance, aware a fragile truce bound the newlyweds. Celeste studied Caspian’s rigid shoulders and wondered if every step he took reminded him of her betrayal. And though her debt was settled, she sensed a heavier burden now weighed upon her heart.
He departed without another glance, leaving her to the silence. She exhaled, hugging the envelope against her chest. Even though the spectre of foreclosure no longer loomed, the debt she owed Caspian—one of guilt and emotional entanglement—felt larger than ever.
Soren Montague sat in his sleek office, drumming his fingertips on the glass desk. Warm Arizona sunlight flooded the space, revealing immaculate decor and a cool expanse of concrete skyline beyond. One might have called him refined, yet a calculating glint in his eye hinted at ruthless ambition. With deliberate calm, he scrolled through messages on his tablet, each detailing discreet deposits made to certain local reporters.
A wry smile tugged his lips. Through these channels, he’d planted just enough rumours about Celeste’s obscure background to spark a media frenzy. No outlandish accusations, just dark suggestions and whispered half-truths. He thrived on the knowledge that people often fill in blanks with the worst possible answers. As far as he was concerned, the more smoke around her reputation, the better the chance her precarious marriage to Caspian would crumble.
In a corner of the same floor, Talia hovered near the open doorway, her earlier bravado waning. She noticed her uncle’s hushed phone calls and the faint triumphant smirk he wore whenever new intel filtered through. Eavesdropping in the hallway, she heard him instruct an underling to “dig deeper—there must be something in Celeste’s past.” The hairs on her neck prickled. She recognized Soren’s relentless nature, yet the edge in his voice unsettled her.
Meanwhile, Celeste remained unaware of the forces amassing against her. She navigated daily life in Caspian’s mansion, oblivious to Soren’s extensive meddling. The newly minted Mrs Hayes had no inkling how swiftly a whisper campaign could topple a reputation. She busied herself with mundane tasks, trying to adapt to Caspian’s strict household rules. If anyone sensed Soren’s schemes, they kept silent.
Late that afternoon, Talia poked her head into Soren’s office. He lifted a brow. “I trust you have news,” he said. She hesitated before murmuring, “Nothing damning on Celeste so far.” Soren’s eyes flickered with displeasure. He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Keep searching. Everybody has skeletons,” he warned. His crisp tone brooked no dissent.
Talia left, knees shaky, uneasy about how far Soren would go to uproot Celeste. Back in the corridor, she rubbed her temples, wondering how her loyalty to Caspian might fare if Soren’s vendetta proved unstoppable. For now, she stayed quiet, uncertain how best to handle the seeds of scandal already planted.
Celeste’s cheeks prickled with embarrassment as the flash of a camera blinded her momentarily. She’d just stepped inside Roman’s flower shop when two paparazzi followed, shoving lenses through the half-open door. The fragrance of blooming lilies and sunflowers clashed with the frantic clicking of shutters. Roman, tall and wiry, instantly stormed over, arms spread wide. “We’re a private business,” he barked. “Leave, or I’m calling the police.” His voice echoed with an unexpected ferocity, stirring a swell of gratitude in Celeste’s chest.
Throughout the morning, customers drifted in, drawn by the shop’s usual calm, only to encounter edgy photographers skulking by the window. Gossipy whispers buzzed among them, hushed tones speculating about Celeste’s “secret wedding.” She tried to keep her head high, offering polite smiles to the curious, though her insides knotted whenever someone asked, “Aren’t you Caspian Hayes’s new wife?” The words reminded her that privacy was now a distant luxury.
At one point, Roman closed the shop door firmly, a frown etched across his face. “This can’t go on,” he muttered, glancing at Celeste with concern. “You sure you want to keep working here?” She squared her shoulders. “I need some sense of normalcy,” she said. “I can’t be caged up in that mansion day in and day out.”
He studied her for a moment. “You look exhausted,” he noted gently, voice tinged with worry. She sighed, recalling the tension at home—Caspian’s midnight pacing, the staff’s sideways glances, her sense of being both wife and prisoner. A wave of shame coursed through her. She never imagined her personal life would become public fodder, much less overshadow Roman’s livelihood.
By mid-afternoon, the paparazzi retreated, bored or satisfied enough to chase a new headline. Celeste helped restock fresh bouquets and reassure uneasy customers, hoping to salvage the day’s business. Still, she couldn’t shake the chill creeping up her spine. If this was just the start of their harassment, what else lay ahead?
When closing time arrived, she stepped outside, the sky tinted pale orange. Despite the day’s small triumph—fending off intrusive reporters—she felt hollow. Sliding into her car, she dreaded returning to Caspian’s vast, silent domain. Once, these flowers and this shop had been her refuge. Now, even that sanctuary felt contaminated by public scrutiny. She drove off, bracing herself for another evening of tension, fully aware that the real battles had only just begun.