Chapter 2 ⋆˚࿔

CELESTE VALE.

I stared at the name until the letters stopped looking like a name at all.

For one irrational second, the photograph from Celeste’s obituary rose perfectly in my memory: dark blond hair swept back from an elegant face, pale blue eyes, a black dress too simple to be accidental. She had been beautiful in the polished, old-money way that made every photograph look curated even when it wasn’t.

And she had been dead for four years.

I set my phone down.

Then picked it back up.

There was nothing frightening about this. Disturbing, yes. Tasteless, absolutely. But dead women did not send text messages.

Someone was using Celeste’s name because they knew it would get my attention.

That realization replaced some of my unease with anger.

I typed:

That isn’t funny.

The message showed as delivered.

No response.

“Good,” I muttered.

Whoever was doing this wanted a reaction. I had already given them more than they deserved.

Still, when I returned to the mourning brooch, I found myself reading the same acquisition note three times without absorbing it.

Celeste Laurent Vale.

I knew remarkably little about her.

That embarrassed me more than it probably should have.

I had never avoided learning about Adrian’s first wife out of jealousy. At least, that was what I told myself. Celeste simply belonged to a part of Adrian’s life he rarely discussed, and I had never believed love entitled me to excavate every grave behind him.

He had told me the important things.

They had married young.

She died in an accident.

He had loved her.

Afterward, he stopped speaking about her.

There had always seemed something respectful about leaving it there.

Now I wondered whether respect and avoidance sometimes looked exactly the same.

I opened a browser.

Searching Celeste Vale produced thousands of results.

Society photographs. Charity galas. Fashion pieces. Wedding coverage. A glossy profile calling her the elegant new face of the Vale dynasty.

Then the later articles.

CELESTE VALE DEAD AT 31

BILLIONAIRE HEIR’S WIFE KILLED IN MOUNTAIN CRASH

TRAGEDY STRIKES VALE FAMILY

I clicked one.

Celeste’s car had left a winding mountain road shortly after midnight. It struck the guardrail, went down an embankment, and caught fire.

Weather conditions were poor.

No other vehicle had been officially implicated.

The death had been ruled accidental.

There was a photograph of Adrian leaving a private memorial service.

He looked younger.

Not softer. Adrian had probably never looked soft in his life.

But empty.

I closed the article.

Suddenly my office felt too quiet.

“Doing research on your own wedding competition?”

I jerked so hard I nearly dropped my phone.

Maya stood in the doorway.

“Jesus.”

She laughed. “Guilty conscience?”

“No.”

Her eyes flicked toward my screen before I minimized the browser.

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice the name.

“Your fiancé is here.”

I frowned. “Adrian?”

“No, your other billionaire fiancé.”

I was already standing.

Adrian rarely came to the museum without warning. He respected my work enough not to treat my schedule as decorative, which meant an unexpected appearance usually involved either food or some problem he had decided could only be solved personally.

I found him near the acquisitions desk.

Dark suit. No tie. One hand in his pocket while he listened to our director talk about an upcoming donor event.

He looked completely out of place among the rolling carts and archival boxes.

And somehow perfectly comfortable anyway.

His gaze found mine almost immediately.

Something in his expression changed.

It always did.

Small enough that nobody else would notice.

Enough that I always did.

“There you are,” he said.

“Were you looking for me?”

“I've been informed you require feeding.”

I looked past him.

Maya smiled innocently.

“Traitor.”

“You can thank me tomorrow.”

Adrian touched his fingers lightly to my waist as I reached him.

The gesture was familiar enough to settle something in me that I hadn’t realized was tense.

I almost told him.

My phone was still in my hand.

One swipe and I could show him the entire exchange.

Before I could decide, our director smiled at Adrian.

“It must be exciting, getting another chance at all this.”

Adrian’s hand stilled against my back.

The director continued, oblivious.

“After everything you went through, I mean. A second chance at happiness.”

It lasted perhaps half a second.

A brief absence behind Adrian’s eyes.

Then his usual composure returned.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m very fortunate.”

The director moved away.

I looked up at Adrian.

“You okay?”

“Of course.”

Too easy.

I knew better than to push him in the middle of my workplace.

And suddenly showing him an anonymous message from someone pretending to be Celeste felt cruel.

Not urgent.

Cruel.

So I slid the phone into my bag.

Dinner was quiet and comfortable and ordinary.

Adrian complained about a merger.

I complained about donor paperwork.

He stole one of my fries after ordering a meal three times more expensive than mine and denied doing it while chewing.

By the time I got home, the messages had begun to feel ridiculous again.

I changed into pajamas, poured a glass of wine, and reopened my laptop.

This time I searched more carefully.

Celeste Laurent’s childhood.

Her family.

Her marriage.

The accident.

Nothing the anonymous sender had told me so far required access to a secret.

Celeste’s name was public.

The marriage was public.

Even the timing of our wedding was public.

Someone had simply chosen the most effective identity possible.

I leaned back, relieved.

A sophisticated prank.

Unpleasant, but explainable.

My phone vibrated beside the laptop.

I looked at it.

Unknown number.

The anger returned before the fear could.

I opened the message.

ASK ADRIAN WHAT I WAS WEARING WHEN I DIED.