Chapter8
Celestia's POV
Six in the morning. Winter dawn crept through the broken blinds, painting shadows across Lysander's sleeping face in my lap.
I hadn't moved all night, one hand resting on his shoulder. Every muscle screamed in protest, but I'd stayed frozen, terrified of triggering another collapse.
My eyes burned with exhaustion, but I couldn't look away.
His eyelashes fluttered, then his eyes opened slowly, unfocused gray pools that took several seconds to sharpen.
His pupils contracted. His entire body went rigid. The confusion in his gaze crystallized into raw, visceral horror.
"You..." His voice came out hoarse. "You've been here all night?"
"Yes."
He sat up abruptly, pulling away like my touch had burned him. His head dropped, shoulders curving inward in profound shame.
His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
When he finally spoke, "Last night... I..."
"You had an episode. Age regression. You went back to eight years old."
His body jerked. "What did I do?"
"You were looking for your mom. You cried. You asked me to hold you."
"Fuck." His hands covered his face. "I must have terrified you."
"I don't think you're pathetic. You're sick, Lysander. It's a trauma response you can't control."
His head snapped up, eyes wide. "You know what this is?"
" You survived something that would have broken most people. That's not weakness. That's survival."
Something flickered in his eyes. His gaze locked on mine, searching. "Why are you being so kind?"
"Because I understand that pain. Lysander, we were both in that explosion. Maybe we can help each other heal."
He was staring at me like I was something precious and breakable. Then he was moving closer, slowly.
"Celestia..." My name on his lips was a question, a plea, a confession.
The distance between us evaporated.
I could feel his breath, warm against my skin, could see his gaze drop to my mouth and darken.
"You know what?" His voice dropped to that low register. "In these years, you're the first person who's seen me like that and didn't run."
"Is that so?"
"My doctor's seen it. My housekeeper. They're professional. But there's always pity in their eyes. Clinical detachment." His hand came up, fingertips ghosting along my jaw. "But you looked at me with understanding. With warmth."
His thumb traced my bottom lip slowly. My heart hammered.
"Celestia." His face was so close. "Can I kiss you?"
Too fast. Too dangerous. Damien started like this too.
But I was already closing my eyes, already tilting my face up.
His lips met mine with exquisite care, soft and questioning. Deliberate, controlled, a slow burn that made my entire body ignite. His other hand framed my face, cradling it with such tenderness it hurt.
I heard myself make a sound and felt him smile before the kiss deepened. His tongue slid against mine in a way that turned my bones to liquid.
When was the last time anyone touched me like this? Like I was precious?
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.
"Celestia..."
His hands slid to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I went willingly, my fingers tangling in his hair. I could feel his heartbeat hammering against my chest.
His mouth moved to my jaw, then lower to my neck.
"Is this okay?" he murmured against my throat.
"Yes."
His hands found the hem of my sweater, fingers skating underneath to touch bare skin. The sensation made me shiver.
He pulled back to look at me, eyes dark and intense, silently asking permission.
I nodded. His fingers hooked into the fabric, starting to lift.
My breath caught. His eyes never left mine, watching for hesitation. When I didn't pull away, his hands moved higher. His palms were warm, anchoring.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, voice rough.
His hands spanned my ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath my bra, and I arched into the touch.
"Celestia."
His mouth traced down my neck, across my collarbone, lower.
"I've never..." he breathed against my skin. "Never felt this safe with anyone."
"Me neither," I admitted.
He looked up at me then, eyes dark with want .
BANG BANG BANG.
"Mr. Thornfield! Emergency! Seventy-two billion in market cap lost!"
Thornfield.
The name hit me like ice water. My hands stilled on his shoulders.
Lysander froze against me, every muscle tensing.
"Mr. Thornfield, please! The board is waiting!"
Market cap. Board. Emergency protocols.
My brain started connecting dots I'd deliberately ignored.
I pulled back slowly, putting space between us. "Lysander?"
His eyes met mine. Guilt, fear, desperate pleading all crashed together in that gray gaze.
"Thornfield Industries?" My voice came out carefully controlled. "The six hundred billion dollar tech empire Thornfield?"
His face went white. "Celestia, I can explain."
The words were too familiar. I can explain. Damien had said the same thing when I'd caught him with Isabelle.
"Explain what?" I yanked my sweater down with shaking hands. "Explain why a billionaire heir pretends to be a struggling student?"
"Someone tried to kill me." The words tumbled out fast. "My parents' deaths weren't an accident. I've been hiding, investigating. I couldn't tell anyone, I couldn't risk..."
"So everything was a lie?"
"You're the mysterious Thornfield heir. The one who never appears in public."
He nodded once, sharp and guilty.
Something in my chest cracked.
But because he'd hidden who he was.
"Marcus," I called toward the door, voice flat. "Your boss had a medical episode last night. He's recovered now. Please take him back where he belongs."
"Celestia, don't do this." Lysander moved toward me, hands outstretched. "Yes, I hid my identity, but everything else was real. " he gestured between us.
"Is it?" I met his eyes, forcing ice into my voice even as my chest felt like it was caving in. "Did you approach me because you knew I was the Ashford heiress? "
"What?!" His shock looked genuine. "You're an Ashford? I didn't know. I swear to God, Celestia, I had no idea about your real identity."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him so badly .
I said, hating how my voice shook. "The vulnerability, the fear, asking me to stay. Was any of it real or just part of the cover?"
"How can you even ask that?" Tears were streaming down his face now. "You held me last night. You saw me at my most broken. That wasn't fake. That was the most real I've been with anyone in these years."
"But you're still a liar." The words came out cold. "You lied about who you are. You lied about your life. How am I supposed to know what else is a lie?"
"Because I'm telling you the truth now!" His voice cracked. "Yes, I hid my identity. Yes, I live in this apartment as cover. But my condition is real. My trauma is real. And what I feel for you is real. Celestia, please. I love you."
The words should have meant something. Should have broken through the ice forming around my heart.
But Damien had said he loved me too. Right before he'd destroyed me.
"I can't do this," I said, grabbing my coat. "I can't be with someone who hides who they are. I've been lied to too many times."
"I'll prove it to you." He was blocking the door now, desperate. "Give me a chance to prove everything I feel is real."
"Move, Lysander."
"Celestia....."
"Move."
He stepped aside slowly, defeat written across every line of his body.
I walked past him without looking back. If I looked back, I'd break. And I couldn't afford to break anymore.
"Celestia!" His anguished shout followed me into the hallway. "I'll prove it was real! All of it!"
The elevator doors closed on his devastated face.
Only then did my mask crack. I slumped against the wall, hands pressed over my mouth to hold back the sobs.
His trauma was real. I know it was real. I held him through it.
But so was Damien's love, once. Before it turned into a weapon.
How am I supposed to know the difference anymore?
