Chapter 10 Do You Truly Want Me To Forget

Celeste's POV

I stayed at F&G until the end of the workday. Dmitri never came back.

The hot coffee was still sitting on my desk.

I didn't drink it, and I didn't ask who had replaced it.

It was such a small thing, and yet I couldn't stop turning it over in my mind — the way he'd looked when he closed the door, and what he'd said about me not seeing Julian alone.

I told myself it was just his need for control. He didn't like watching me get close to another man.

But if that was all it was, why did he keep being kind to me?

The more I thought about it, the more unsettled I felt. I packed up and left.

Back at my apartment, I showered and forced myself to stop thinking about F&G — and to stop thinking about him.

Late that night, rain began tapping against my window.

I rolled over and reached for my phone. No messages from him.

I stared at the blank screen for a long moment, then set it face-down.

I thought I'd finally be able to get some sleep.

Then, in the early hours of the morning, the storm hit.

Rain hammered the glass — loud and relentless, impossible to sleep through. I finally gave up, dragged myself to the sofa with my blanket, and sat there with too much on my mind.

That cup of hot coffee from earlier in the day kept drifting back into my thoughts.

I told myself to stop. The harder I tried, the worse it got.

My phone lit up at 12:17.

A message from Groffs: He's downstairs.

I stared at those three words for several seconds without moving.

Then I ran to the window and looked down.

Under the streetlight, Dmitri stood in the rain. His black coat was soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead. He wasn't moving at all.

My chest went tight.

I grabbed my jacket and practically ran downstairs, one thought driving me: if he stayed out there, something was going to go wrong.

The moment I pushed open the building door, cold wind and rain hit me full in the face. Before I'd even found my footing, my hair and clothes were soaked through.

He heard the door and looked up.

His eyes were red. His face was pale. The smell of alcohol came off him in waves.

In that moment, I saw something in his eyes — a lot of things at once.

I couldn't read any of it.

"What are you doing here?" I called out. The rain swallowed half my voice.

He didn't answer. He started toward me, his steps unsteady.

I took an instinctive step back.

I wanted to say: go home.

I wanted to say: stop coming to find me.

But what came out was, "Turn around. Dmitri, you're drunk — go home right now."

He ignored me.

He crossed the distance in a few strides and pulled me into his arms.

I went completely still.

His hold was tight — tight enough that I could barely breathe.

Rainwater dripped from his jaw onto my neck, cold as ice.

But his body was burning.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought he might be able to hear it.

I wanted to push him away.

My hands just hung there in the air and wouldn't come down.

"Celeste." He said my name against my ear, his voice rough and broken. "Why did you lie to me?"

Everything in me went rigid.

"I didn't lie to you," I said.

"You're a liar." His breath scorched my skin. "You told me you were dead."

He buried his face against my shoulder, his voice dropping lower and lower.

"Why did you have to lie to me..."

My eyes burned. I almost broke.

I bit down hard and held on.

I couldn't cry. If I cried, I'd lose.

But the ache in my chest was unbearable.

I shoved him back, grabbed his arm, and half-dragged, half-steadied him toward the building door.

"Come on," I said through clenched teeth. "Upstairs. Now."

He was heavy. My legs were shaking with every step.

As I hauled him along, I cursed myself: what are you thinking?

I had already made up my mind to leave him behind, and here I was dragging him right back into my life.

We finally made it to the elevator. He slid down the wall and crouched on the floor, eyes closed, breathing hard.

I crouched down beside him and pressed my hand to his forehead.

Burning.

My stomach sank.

Anger and fear tangled together inside me until I could barely breathe. I called him an idiot, told him he was going to get himself killed — and somewhere in the middle of all that, I started crying anyway.

Getting him through my front door took everything I had. I managed to steer him to the sofa and ease him down onto it.

His coat was soaked through. When I pulled it off and my fingers touched his skin, the heat made me flinch.

I dug out the medicine kit, found a thermometer, and tucked it under his arm.

39.2°C.

I found fever medication, poured a glass of lukewarm water, and held the back of his head while I got him to swallow it. He frowned through the whole thing and never opened his eyes.

It was then that I noticed — he was thin. Much thinner than he'd been three years ago.

My throat tightened.

What had these three years done to him?

I wrung out a cold cloth in the bathroom, folded it, and laid it across his forehead.

He suddenly caught my wrist.

I went still.

"Don't leave me again." His voice was barely a sound, as though he was afraid of disturbing something fragile.

I pulled my hand free. But I stayed — right there beside the sofa, changing the cloth over and over.

Outside, the rain hadn't let up. It knocked against the glass in steady, insistent beats, as if urging something forward.

As I worked, I found myself thinking: if he had held on to me like this three years ago, would I have stayed?

I crushed the thought before it could take hold.

There are no what-ifs.

At four in the morning, he murmured my name in his sleep. "Celeste."

It was soft and low, roughened by fever.

My tears came before I could stop them.

But my hand stayed on his forehead. I didn't move it.

For the first time, I understood it clearly: in all these three years, I had never truly forgotten him.

As dawn neared, his fever finally began to ease.

I leaned against the side of the sofa, my eyes growing heavier and heavier, until I was gone.

When I woke, full daylight had come.

The sofa was empty.

I jolted upright and looked around wildly, my heart shooting into my throat.

He was standing at the window, wearing one of the clean shirts I'd found for him. His back was to me, his posture straight.

He heard me stir and turned around. The composure was back — that flat, closed-off expression he always wore.

"You're awake."

I pressed my lips together and watched him, and suddenly he felt like a stranger. The man who had held me last night, who had called my name, who had burned like a fever — it was as if he had never existed.

He walked over and looked down at me, his gaze deep and still, no trace of anything behind it.

"Last night," he said. "Forget it happened."

The cold hit me all at once — like ice water poured from above.

I hadn't even told him to leave, and he was already saying things like this.

"What did you say?"

"I had too much to drink. I don't remember much." His voice was flat. "Don't take it seriously."

I looked at him and almost laughed.

And almost cried.

Last night, he had held me. Said my name. Begged me not to leave.

Today, sober, he stood in front of me and told me to forget it.

My eyes burned again. I held on.

I would not let him see me cry.

"Fine." I stood. My voice came out steady. "Then it never happened."

He looked at me for a moment, then turned to get his coat.

Do you truly want me to forget — something asked, from somewhere inside me — or is there something you're too afraid for me to remember?

I didn't ask. I stood there, my fingers clenched white at my sides.

Just then, my phone on the coffee table lit up.

I walked over and picked it up.

A notification from the hospital.

Hello, the pharmaceutical supplier for Eleanor's medication has been acquired by Halden Pharma. Effective this month, the medication price has been adjusted — an increase of approximately three times the previous cost. Please arrange payment for the difference as soon as possible.