Chapter 17
“Hakeem,” I said, voice trembling as I clutched his arm. “She’s back. She’s trying to ruin us.
I know it. She changed her face, but it’s her. It’s in her eyes. I see it.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t confirm it but didn’t deny it either.
–
I spent the rest of the night pacing. Ripping drawers open. Throwing perfumes against the walls. Tearing my hair.
“She’s going to ruin everything,” I kept repeating. “I built a whole damn empire for us and she’s crawling out of hell to snatch it back.”
I called my hacker again. Demanded every scrap of information about this “Celeste, that damn actress.”
“I want everything on that woman. I don’t care what it takes. Dig. I want her blood type, her birth certificate, her goddamn dentist records if you have to–just FIND THE CRACKS.”
He got back to me an hour later.
“Ma’am… there’s nothing. She’s clean. Name’s Celeste Aragon. She was raised in Luxembourg. Educated in Singapore. Speaks five languages. Background in humanitarian law and diplomatic negotiation. She’s a spanish–American. Has childhood records, school reports, fake–ass charity work. She even has a family. Adopted parents, two cousins, no siblings.”
“That’s impossible,” I said to myself, slamming the laptop shut.
And that night…
That damn red carpet replay, looped on screen like some haunting lullaby. Celeste, radiant and composed, turning slightly toward the camera with that same fucking smile Harmony used to give. And Hakeem?
He didn’t blink.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen like it held some gospel truth. He’s been watching her press clips like they’re scripture. Rewinding interviews. Slowing down clips. Zooming in on her eyes.
That’s not curiosity anymore. That’s the start of obsession. I walked over and placed my hand on his shoulder, soft and slow.
“Baby, you’ve seen this already. Come lie down. It’s just a new actress, that’s all.”
He didn’t say anything. Just kept staring. So I bent forward and kissed his cheek.
“You said Harmony’s dead… right? You said we burned every part of her. Let her go, please.”
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He finally looked at me. But his eyes… They weren’t mine tonight.
pulled away before I cracked. I smiled like I always do. And I went to the guest room, locked the door, and opened the drawer where I kept the burner.
Fine.
If he won’t stop looking, I’ll give the world something to look at too.
I pulled up the El Bastión Confidential contact. Tabloid trash but influential- the kind that doesn’t need proof before setting fire.
“The rising actress Celeste isn’t who you think. She’s Harmony Masterson. Faked her death. Wanted for fraud and murder. Start digging.”
I attached the Al–fogged side–by–side of Harmony from five years ago, standing beside Hakeem at a fundraiser in that silver dress he used to love
and Celeste in the champagne gown at the Venice gala last week.
“Compare the eyes. The lips. She’s hiding in plain sight.” Then I messaged again. “Ask her about Spain. Ask her about her family. She’ll freeze.”
I leaned back against the wall, phone pressed to my chest, heart pounding. Not from guilt, just from the thrill of it.
No one steals attention from me and walks away.
I sent a few thousand to a paparazzi I trusted in Ibiza. Told him to track a kid named Aziel.
He didn’t know why. I didn’t explain. But if he got a clear shot, I’d double the pay. I even tossed in fake GPS data and a composite location. Let them scream about child abuse again. Let them run hashtags.
And then… I poured myself a glass of wine, turned the TV back on, and watched Celeste’s interview play again. She looked directly at the camera, soft voice, easy smile, like the world had never shattered her.
I smiled too. But mine didn’t reach my eyes.
“You really think you’re winning, don’t you?” I whispered, tapping the rim of the glass.
“You think you’re someone new. That changing your face means you erased me.” I shook my head slowly and took another sip. “Let’s see if you still smile when the wolves come for you, Harmony.”
Because even if you’re not her? I’ll make sure you pay for reminding me of her. And I’ll make damn sure Hakeem never looks at you that way again.
The next day while Hakeem was on his shipment deal, I went to my “therapy” session–the one I booked weeks ago just in case the wolves started sniffing around.
I wore beige today. Light pink lips. No eyeliner. Hair loose. Vulnerable chic. Because
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come in diamonds. It comes in trembling hands and barely–there
mascara.
The therapist was a nice woman. Real or not, I didn’t care. The cameras outside were real enough.
I dabbed a tissue to my eyes and whispered gently, “My trauma’s being reawakened. I fear for my life. My abuser may be hiding in the industry.”
And just like that, the storm began.
By the time I reached the car, my driver was already holding up his phone.
News alerts popping up like flowers after rain.
“Celeste: Who Is She Really?”
“Anonymous Sources Claim Celeste Is Not Who She Says”
“Is Celeste a Reinvented Mafia Heiress?”
I smiled to myself and leaned back against the leather seat. Took a long breath. Closed my
eyes.
Because once doubt starts growing, it doesn’t stop.
You don’t need facts when you have fear. You just need whispers. Shadows. The right tone. The right pause between words. That’s what the media feeds on. Not truth. Blood.
–
Back at home, I kissed Hakeem when he walked through the door. Told him the
press was being dramatic again. He was tired and grunting. Didn’t even check the headlines tonight. That’s fine. He’ll see it later. And by then, the world will already be looking at her differently.
Later that night, when he was in the shower, I picked up my burner again.
I opened my voice recorder. Pressed record.
Then in my softest voice, I whispered:
“She’s Harmony. Ask her about Margaret and she’ll flinch. Then call me.”
I hit send to the journalist at El Bastión Confidential.
And then? I curled into our white silk sheets and fell asleep on Hakeem’s chest. Like a good wife. A grieving survivor. And the last woman Harmony will ever underestimate.
Chapter 17
