Chapter 3
Through the haze of my tears, I thought I saw him.
The man who had once held me close at my father’s funeral, his arms a shelter as my world
crumbled.
*“Celeste, I will give you a home. Everything I have belongs to you.“*
His voice had been so steady that day, his embrace so sure, as if I had been his entire world.
What a cruel illusion.
Now, as I laid Atlas onto our bed, I no longer moved with the tenderness I once did. I didn’t take off his shoes. I didn’t press a glass of water to his lips, murmuring words of comfort.
I simply turned away.
For the first time in five years, I shut myself inside the guest room.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every memory of his love–every soft look,
every whispered promise.
And wondering if any of it had ever been real.
Morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room.
I opened my eyes to find Atlas already watching me. His gaze was gentle, his expression full of quiet
affection, as if nothing had changed.
He leaned down, pressing a slow, familiar kiss to my forehead.
“Celeste, were you upset last night?” His voice was soft, laced with concern. “I’m sorry–I had too
much to drink. I promise it won’t happen again.”
His tenderness was effortless, the same as it had always been.
I gave a quiet hum in response, barely audible, then slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. The moment the door shut behind me, I turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over my fingers.
Then, with slow deliberation, I pressed my damp palms to my forehead, wiping away the lingering
warmth of his kiss.
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Chapter 3
Breakfast was already laid out when I stepped into the dining room.
Once, a sight like this would have made me happy. Atlas always prepared my favorites–meticulously plated, arranged with care.
But now, after reading his diary, after seeing the truth spelled out so cruelly in his own words…
I couldn’t even muster the appetite to eat. Because I knew now. These weren’t my favorite dishes.
They were Ivy’s.
The sound of keys turning in the front door made me look up.
The door swung open, and Ivy stepped inside, her white dress flowing as she moved through my
home as though she belonged there.
She walked to the table without hesitation, sliding into a chair across from me, her smile polite,
effortless.
“Celeste, I hope I’m not intruding,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “Atlas and I have a photoshoot this morning. He told me to come over for breakfast first.”
I didn’t respond. My gaze had already locked onto something else.
A keychain.
Dangling from her fingertips–identical to the one I carried in my bag.
Atlas must have noticed the shift in my expression because he immediately leaned in, his voice low,
reassuring.
“Celeste, Ivy is our closest friend,” he murmured. “It’s normal for her to have a key to our home…”
His voice trailed off, cut short by his own instinct.
Across the table, Ivy had just picked up a glass of soy milk. Atlas was on his feet in an instant, moving without thought.
“Ivy, you can’t drink this.” His voice was sharp, urgent. “How many times have I told you?”
Ivy stilled, then let out a soft laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re right,” she murmured, her tone teasing, affectionate. “Thank God, I got you to remind me.”
(
Their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them. Something too deep, too natural, but
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Chapter 3
had nothing to do with me.
I pushed back my chair, the sound echoing in the quiet room. I didn’t want to be here anymore.
I was halfway to the door when Ivy called out again.
“Celeste,” she said, tilting her head in that same effortless way. “You’re good at photography, right? Could you take my pictures today? I don’t trust the new photographer.”
My fingers clenched. Since my father’s passing, I hadn’t touched a camera.
Not once.
Because the moment I did, I would think of him–his steady hands guiding mine, his patient voice teaching me how to frame a shot, his warmth as he stood beside me.
Atlas knew this. He had locked all my cameras away, told me I didn’t have to force myself, promised
that he would wait until I was ready.
But now–before I could even refuse, Atlas placed a hand on my back, gently ushering me forward.
“Celeste,” he said, almost apologetically, “Ivy gets carsick. Let’s not make things difficult for her, okay? You can sit in the back today.”
A quiet, bitter laugh nearly escaped me.
He had forgotten something—I was the one who got carsick.
