Chapter3
Celestia's POV
The December wind cut through my coat as I walked down Tremont Street. Twenty minutes since I'd left the Whitmore house. No destination. Just moving forward.
My phone buzzed. Maxwell. I declined and blocked his number. Then Ethan's. Then Isabelle's.
You're free now.
But freedom tasted like loneliness.
I found myself standing in front of a jazz bar. Warm light spilled from the windows. I pushed open the door.
Dark wood. Dim lighting. Scattered patrons. I slid onto a barstool.
"Whiskey, please."
The bartender poured. I took a sip, welcoming the burn. In my last life, Damien said drinking wasn't ladylike. I never drank after that.
But I didn't care now.
The door opened. A man walked in. Tall, handsome, wearing a faded hoodie. Everything screamed broke college student.
But something was off.
I watched him through the mirror. He sat with his back to the wall, eyes constantly scanning. Careful. Alert.
Like someone who'd been hurt before.
Then three large men shoved in, loud and drunk.
One of them turned to the guy in the hoodie. "Well, well. If it isn't the college boy who owes me three hundred bucks."
The man didn't respond. Just tensed.
"I'm just a student," he said quietly.
"Bullshit." The drunk man grabbed his shoulder. "Pay up, or we have a problem."
Not my business. Don't get involved.
In my last life, I'd tried to help people. Tried to be good. And where had it gotten me? Betrayed. Used. Dead.
Look away. Finish your drink. Leave.
But then the punch landed. The guy doubled over, still gripping his backpack like a lifeline. Protecting something worth more than his pride.
And I saw it. That desperate look I knew too well. The look of someone trying to survive.
Just like me.
The drunk man pulled out a switchblade. "Last chance, college boy."
My hands tightened on my glass.
This is stupid. You don't know him.
But I was already moving.
Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the rage still burning from Maxwell's slap.
Or maybe I just needed to hit something tonight.
"Three grown men ganging up on one student," I said. "Is this really how low Boston's street thugs have sunk?"
The man turned, eyes raking over me. "Keep me company tonight, sweetheart, and I'll forget the three hundred."
His friends laughed.
"Here's a better deal. Walk out right now, and I don't break every bone in your hand."
The laughter died. His face flushed red. "Someone needs to teach you manners, bitch."
He lunged, switchblade aimed at my throat.
I'd fought sober professionals in underground rings where the only rule was survival. This was nothing.
I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted hard. The joint cracked. The knife clattered to the floor as he screamed.
I drove my knee into his solar plexus. He folded.
The second guy charged. I ducked, grabbed a bottle, smashed it against his head. Not hard enough to kill. Just hard enough. The third ran.
I crouched by the first man. "If I ever see you near him again, I won't stop at your wrist. Understand?"
He nodded frantically.
I turned to the guy in the hoodie.
He was staring at me like I was some puzzle he couldn't solve.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks to you."
"Don't mention it."
"Wait. Why did you help me?"
"Because I hate people who pick on those weaker than them. And because I needed to hit something tonight."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I'm Lysander. Lysander Thornfield."
"Celestia. Celestia Whitmore."
"Can I buy you a drink?"
I should have said no. But I nodded.
"Sure."
We sat at the bar. The bartender poured fresh drinks. Outside, rain began to fall.
"To unexpected saviors," Lysander said.
"To survival."
We drank in comfortable silence.
"Boston University. Finance," I said. "Though I just walked out on my family tonight."
"I know what that's like. My parents died when I was ten."
The weight behind those words was familiar.
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." He looked at the burn scar on his hand. "But yeah, I understand not having a home to go back to."
The rain intensified. The bartender called last call.
"I should go," I said.
"Where? You'll get soaked." He gestured to the windows. "My apartment's two blocks away. You could wait out the storm. I promise I'm not dangerous."
My instincts said I was safe with him.
"Okay."
We ran through the rain to his building. Tiny studio. Peeling wallpaper. Single bed. But clean.
The shower barely worked, but the hot water felt like heaven.
When I emerged, he'd laid out clothes for me.
He'd made instant coffee. We sat on the edge of the bed.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" he asked.
"I was sent away when I was young. To a place where you either learned to survive or you didn't."
His expression darkened. "What kind of family does that?"
"The kind that never wanted me." No bitterness. Just fact.
"For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice leaving."
We fell into silence. I studied him. The sharp jaw. The way his shoulders curved inward. That burn scar.
"You're not really a broke college student, are you?"
He tensed. "What makes you say that?"
"Your laptop. The wear patterns are wrong. And your backpack. You protected it like it contained something irreplaceable."
He laughed. "You're observant. That's terrifying."
"It keeps me alive."
"You're right. I'm not. But I'm not ready to tell anyone who I actually am."
"Okay."
"Just like that?"
"We all have our secrets."
Something shifted between us.
"Thank you," he said softly. "For understanding."
It was past one.
"You should take the bed," he said. "I'll take the floor."
"The bed's big enough for two."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. But I'm staying on top of the covers."
We arranged ourselves carefully.
"Celestia?" His voice was quiet in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Do you believe people can change their fate?"
I thought about my last life. About who I was now.
"I think we can. But only if we're willing to let go of who we used to be."
"Yeah," he said softly.
Just before I drifted off, I heard him whisper, "Thank you for tonight."
I reached out and found his hand. Squeezed gently.
He squeezed back.
Then sleep claimed me.
I woke to pale light and movement. He was by the kitchen, cooking.
He brought me food and we had breakfast together.
But his phone buzzed. His expression changed. Panic, quickly hidden.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah, just work stuff." He scrolled through urgent messages. "Shit. I have to go. Something came up. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I should go anyway."
He grabbed a pen, scribbled something. "My number. In case you need anything."
I took the paper. "Thanks."
"Celestia, I'm sorry. For leaving like this."
"Don't be. We all have our lives."
I changed quickly, walked down the stairs, into the morning light.
Saturday, 3 PM
I'd spent the day at a coffee shop.
Finally, I pulled out the paper. Dialed the number.
Three rings. Then: "The number you have dialed has been disconnected."
I tried again. Same result.
That hollow feeling in my chest expanded.
You should have known not to trust anyone.
I tore the paper into pieces, let them fall into my coffee.
"I don't need him. I don't need anyone."
I pulled out the news clipping and looked at it.
Lysander's POV
I stood at the windows of my penthouse, fifty-three floors above Manhattan. Everything I'd built in eighteen years since my parents died.
Marcus stood by my desk. "Sir, the stock price has stabilized."
My eyes fell on the burner phone. The one I'd had to deactivate this morning.
Celestia.
Last night was the first time in eighteen years I'd felt safe enough to sleep near another person.
And I'd ruined it.
I think we'll meet again.
