Chapter5
Celestia's POV
After breakfast, I refused Theodore's offer of a driver. Sebastian looked ready to argue, but Theodore placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
"She needs space," he said quietly.
The ride back gave me time to think. Gray December sky pressed down on brownstones and bare trees, the city locked in that ugly transition between fall and winter. Students hurried along sidewalks clutching coffee, completely certain of where they belonged.
I used to watch them with envy. Now I just felt tired.
The driver dropped me at BU's gates at ten-thirty. I stood there staring at the buildings that had been my world for three years. Last time I stood here, I'd been Maxwell's discarded daughter with nothing. This time, Theodore Ashford's black card sat in my wallet, Sebastian's number saved in my phone.
But nobody here knew. I wanted it that way.
My phone buzzed. Mia.
Cel! Isabelle posted you're escorting since Maxwell kicked you out. Comments are BRUTAL.
I pulled up the app. Whitmore trash showing her true colors. Bet she fucked professors for grades. Someone report her.
First life, these words destroyed me. Nights sobbing, convinced I deserved it.
Now? I locked the phone and walked.
Whispers started immediately. Students stopped mid-conversation, phones angling like weapons. A girl in a hockey sweatshirt shoulder-checked me. "Surprised you showed your face."
I stopped. Turned. Let my gaze settle on her the way I'd looked at rats in Blackwood's cells.
She faltered. Stepped back.
I kept walking, spine straight.
Let them talk. The bigger the lie, the harder it falls when I burn it down.
Mia intercepted me at the library, red-eyed. "I've been reporting comments for an hour—"
"Stop. Don't waste time."
"But they're destroying you!"
"They're destroying a version of me that never existed." I met her eyes. "Let them talk. The more they say, the better."
She stared but nodded. "What do you need?"
"Come to class. Sit with me."
"Always."
We walked into Corporate Finance together. The lecture hall went silent. Sixty pairs of eyes tracked us.
Isabelle sat center stage, surrounded by sorority sisters. She looked up, surprise flickering across her face. She'd expected me broken.
I smiled. Cold. Knowing.
She went pale.
Professor Harrington glanced up as I took my seat. "Miss Whitmore. Given recent rumors, I must remind you Boston University maintains strict ethical standards—"
"Professor." My voice stayed clinical. "As an educator, you shouldn't lend credibility to unverified gossip. If you believe I've violated policy, file a formal complaint. But public shaming? That's harassment. Dean Morrison would find it interesting."
Silence crashed down.
"Do you have evidence these are false?"
"Burden of proof lies with the accuser. Basic legal principle."
His jaw worked. Finally he cleared his throat. "Take your seat."
I was already sitting.
The lecture dragged on. Capital structure theory, WACC calculations. I took notes mechanically, mind working real calculations. Mapping Isabelle's network. Identifying weak points. Planning exactly how much rope to give her before she hanged herself.
Class ended. I packed slowly, letting the room empty around me. Let Isabelle approach because I knew she would.
She materialized beside my desk, tears ready. "Celestia, please come home. Dad's so worried—"
"Save the performance for someone who still thinks you're human."
Her mask slipped. One heartbeat of pure venom flashing through.
Then tears returned. "I don't understand why you hate me....."
"You're good. Really good." I stood, shouldered my bag. "Wrong audience now."
I walked past, leaving her frozen in the aisle.
The walk back to my apartment felt longer than usual, adrenaline draining away with each block. By the time I climbed the four flights of stairs, my hands were steady again. Professional. Ready for the real work.
My apartment felt like sanctuary. Fourth-floor Allston walkup, radiator clanging, walls thin enough to hear neighbors fighting.
I locked the door and booted my encrypted laptop. Navigated through three VPN layers to The Undercroft, the darknet's most exclusive black market. Login: Elixir.
Notification pinged immediately.
URGENT – 72 HOURS
Custom pharmaceutical for severe PTSD. Patient non-responsive to standard treatments. Symptoms: night terrors, fire-related triggers. Payment: $500,000 USD.
My chest tightened. Too familiar. Too close to Blackwood nights, waking up screaming, convinced I could still smell burning flesh.
But five hundred thousand would rebuild everything. And if I could synthesize something that worked for trauma this severe, maybe I could finally silence my own demons.
I opened the encrypted files. Male, late twenties, dissociative episodes triggered by fire stimuli, documented self-harm during flashbacks. Brain scans showed hyperactivity in the amygdala, suppressed prefrontal cortex. Severe trauma patterns I recognized intimately.
Just like me. After Blackwood. Before I learned to weaponize the pain.
I pulled up old research notes. Formulas I'd developed in secret, tested on myself first. Some had worked. Some had nearly killed me.
I was drafting the synthesis protocol when a second notification appeared. Different platform, different encryption layer.
Erebus: Nyx. Three months dark. Thought you were dead.
My throat closed. Sebastian. My brother. My teacher. Who had no idea Nyx was his sister.
Nyx: Handled personal business. Back now.*
Erebus: Need help?
Nyx: Yeah. Need full workup on Maxwell Whitmore, Boston. Every dirty secret.
Three dots appeared. Stopped. Started again.
Erebus: That name's attached to the Ashford abuse case.
My pulse hammered.
Erebus: This personal?
Nyx: Does it matter?
Erebus: No. One week. I'll burn his digital existence to ash.
I exhaled slowly, fingers trembling over the keys.
Nyx: Thanks.
Erebus: Whoever hurt you, they won't escape. Promise.
I closed the chat before I could say something stupid. Before I could tell him he'd already kept that promise every time he'd taught me to code, praised my work, not knowing it was his baby sister on the other end.
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Somewhere across the city, Sebastian sat in Ashford's mansion planning Maxwell's destruction for a stranger he'd never met.
And I held the truth that would shatter both our worlds.
But not yet. Not until Maxwell burns. Not until Isabelle understands loss.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
I stared at the screen, finger hovering over decline. Unknown numbers were never good news. But something made me swipe to accept.
"Hello?"
"Celestia."
The voice hit like a physical blow. Deep, rough-edged, exactly like I remembered from that rain-soaked night. Arms that had felt like safety. The way he'd held me like I mattered.
My breath stopped. "Lysander?"
"It's me." Heavy pause, weighted with everything unsaid. "I know you think I gave you a fake number. I didn't. There was an emergency. I had to destroy that phone immediately. By the time I realized what happened, you were gone. I've been looking for you for weeks."
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles went white. Hand shaking.
Rain-soaked pavement. His coat around my shoulders. Waking up in his arms feeling safe for the first time in years. Then morning, and that automated message. The number you have dialed is not in service. The crushing certainty I'd been fooled again.
"Is it really you?" My voice came out too small, carrying too much hope, too much fear of being played one more time.
"It's really me, Celestia."
