Chapter 15 Hangover and Heartache
\-Celeste-
A headache wasn't supposed to sound like drums pounding in my skull, was it?
I groaned, burying my face into the pillow, but it didn't help, the pounding followed me, echoing louder with every breath. My mouth felt dry and heavy, like my salivary glands had stopped functioning, my stomach twisted, and every inch of me reeked of regret.
It took me a second to notice. The fabric against my skin wasn't the dress I had worn last night. This was soft. Loose. Silk. Revealing.
I gasped.
Someone had changed my clothes.
The realization made me sit up too fast, and I instantly regretted it. My head throbbed, my stomach lurched, and the sour ghost of vomit clung to the back of my throat. I must've thrown up. God. I actually did.
I pressed my hands over my face, feeling the disgust course through me. And then, like cruel little flashes, the memories slipped back in. Too many drinks. Laughing too loudly. Leaning in too close. Hands sliding where they shouldn't have been. An almost kiss-
I squeezed my eyes shut. No. I didn't want to remember. Not now.
As if my day couldn't get any worse, Lucien walked in, and my heart skipped. Then it hit me, I had thrown up on myself, and he had slipped me into this. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Once again, my eyes squeezed shut as I squirmed, wishing the floor would just swallow me whole.
"Drink. You'll feel better." He extended the cup in his hands, his expression unreadable.
I took the glass, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Contempt burned there, laced with undeniable disgust. But I swallowed hard and murmured a thank-you.
"What was that stunt you pulled last night?" He replied instead.
I don't know, what was that, really? I answered in my head.
In an instant, he was sitting on the bed, a few inches away from my face. I shifted, swallowing hard.
His face lit up with cruel amusement as he leaned further. "What? Cat got your tongue?"
If I hadn't emptied the cup, the water would have spilled on me.
He scoffed, arching his brow in annoyance. "Why are you acting so coy? Last night, you were impossible."
What else happened last night? My mind reeled.
Quietly, he took the cup away from me, setting it down on the night-stand in a slow, deliberate manner. Again, he leaned forward, reaching for my hair and gently tucking a loose strand behind my ears.
"Tell me, Celeste... What do you want?" He murmured, making my heart skip more than a beat.
"You're like a Rubik's cube, I can never figure you out," I blurted before I could stop myself.
"Then stop trying, Celeste." He murmured again.
He leaned in, the space between us heating with tension. My chest tightened. Part of me wanted him closer, but the thought made me sick with myself. How could I even think that?
He froze, his eyes unreadable, then eased back. "Clearly, you're not ready for what you want."
He stood and walked away, and I hated myself for wishing he'd stay. Desperate, the words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"I'm sorry about yesterday. My mother-" I swallowed hard. "I was so young when they said she died. I barely remember. There wasn't even a burial, at least not one I can recall. And when I saw that photo, it just... it felt wrong. Disrespectful. I lost it."
That was when he finally stopped and turned.
"No. What you did was hand them something to gossip about. You had a chance to be graceful, and you threw it away. Last night wasn't about your mother, Celeste-it was about you clawing back at your critics, desperate for attention. Pathetic. Even for the Ashford heiress." His voice dripped with contempt, every word soaked in disdain.
How could he? My vision blurred as the tears welled, helpless, while he turned and stormed off.
Just then, my phone pinged with notifications and tags I didn't even dare to open. I forced myself to read the comments below one of the numerous posts about me and, more than anything, I just wanted to disappear from the face of the earth.
"So is her mother really alive?" One comment read, "Was she high or just really drunk?" "Someone said they saw her doing coke too." "Maybe she's secretly an addict?"
As if that wasn't enough, Grandmother called. This time, I answered because I had a reason to. I had to know the truth about my mother.
Her voice boomed through the phone, cold and distant. "Celeste, I want you back home immediately."
"Yes Grandmother."
When I arrived, I went straight to my bedroom, ignoring the curious stares from the staff members. Quickly, I packed up my personal belongings into a box and headed downstairs and outside to the patio, where Grandmother sat, having brunch under the morning sun.
"Good morning, Grandmother." I muttered the greeting.
She took a spoonful of soup before she replied. "And where do you think you're going?"
I let out a sigh that I didn't realize I was holding. "I'm leaving."
She paused, holding her spoon midair like I had uttered something abominable. "So, you're yet to come off this foolishness?"
My jaw clenched. "My marriage isn't foolishness, Grandmother."
She let out a sharp laugh, flinging her spoon as if the food itself had betrayed her.
"You've completely lost it! Do you want to drag us straight into the mud? Your name's plastered all over the top searches today, and you don't have an ounce of remorse! Do you have any idea how hard we're working to bury those vile videos?"
My heart pounded as my fingers balled into fists. She was one to talk about remorse.
"Go back into the house and think of what you did before I do something rash!" She ordered.
Typical of her, she never listened, never cared to hear you out. All that ever mattered to her was control. Well, this time, I wasn't going to bow my head in foolish obedience.
I raised my chin, eyes flashing with defiance as they met hers. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Grandmother."
She let out a bitter laugh, "So you'd rather lose everything than this stubborn pride of yours, huh?"
I wouldn't mind risking it.
Her voice hardened with anger. "I'll give you a month. If you haven't changed by then, I'll cut you off-for good!"
"It won't matter then or now if you did!"
"You think you can survive on what you make at that little cake shop? Darling, you'll be a pauper." She spat.
"A free one," I shot back. How could she not see? This wasn't about wealth, it was about me. About making my own decisions.
Her eyes narrowed, brows furrowed in annoyance. "So that's what this is about? You think I caged you? No," she chuckled, "I was shaping a future for you, one your peers could never even dream of. An heiress married to the heir of a powerful law firm-you'd be the talk of the entire country. Power and leverage in one family... something beyond anyone's wildest imagination!" She paused as if she wanted it to sink in.
She continued, "So leave, if you must. But if you can't see what I see now, it'll be too late when you finally do."
What was I supposed to see? The only thing I saw was a sugar-coated fantasy, a train one would jump on without a second thought. In the end, it was just a means of control.
Tears blurred my vision before I even realized they'd fallen. But I steadied my voice, squaring my shoulders. "Before I go, I just have one question."
She spared me a glance, so I spoke.
"Was that woman in the photo truly my mother?" I asked, nearly choking on my own tears.
Her head tilted, expression cool, unbothered. "Why? So you can justify your antics last night?" she snapped.
"Just answer me, Grandmother! I need to know!" My voice rose despite my efforts to steady it.
Her gaze flickered, a subtle shift that betrayed she knew more than she wanted to say.
"Your mother died a long time ago. But since your father is in the best position to convince you..."
I turned sharply to see him approaching with a smile.
"Little light," he murmured, his hand gentle as it closed around my shoulder. "How are you holding up?" He smiled. But his eyes
were sad, like he had been trapped too and had long accepted his fate.
How was I only seeing it now?
Before I could respond, she began. "She has a question, James. She wants to know about her mother." she casually said.
Father's eyes faltered, then he recovered just as quickly. "Little Star, Vanessa is your mother-"
"No, Dad!" My voice cracked, sharp with pain. "She's never been my mother, and she never will be!"
His eyes widened, stunned, like he had been shocked by my words. Was he too blind to not have noticed this entire time? Or perhaps, Vanessa had played her role all too well.
"And don't call me that," I choked, tears spilling. "I'm not your Little Star anymore. All I want is the truth. The genuine truth.
Please..." My voice trailed off.
The sob I had desperately fought to hold in finally tore through.
He opened his mouth, his lips parting like the truth had been trying to find its way out the entire time. His eyes softened on me, and for one second I thought-finally, he's going to tell me.
Then Grandmother's voice slid between us, calm but a subtle reminder that she was still here making and bending all decisions.
"I told her the woman was dead, darling. Tell her. Tell her how old she was when she died. That's why she doesn't remember." She pinned him with her gaze, daring him to disobey.
Her words weren't a reminder, they were a command. A script.
His hand tightened on my shoulder till I felt the tremor in his fingers. For a second, his lips trembled, then...his eyes went cold.
"...I'm sorry, Celeste. I really am. But your mother... she died when you were four."