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And then I heard his voice.
Cassian.
Rushing through the chaos, gun still tucked behind his back, hands trembling and full of
wrath.
“Who the fuck let her in?” he roared.
He was at my side in seconds, kneeling and cupped my face, stared at the blood, and for a moment I swear he looked like he was about to kill someone with his bare hands.
But I smiled sarcastically.
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“I let her stabbed me and let the world see it. She missed the heart,” I whispered. “As always.”
Cassian growled under his breath and kissed my forehead, the edge of his jaw clenched so tight I thought it would crack.
“She’s not walking out of here again,” he whispered back. “Not this time, Celeste. Not after this.”
I nodded, held onto his wrist, and whispered, “Good. Make sure the world sees it.”
Because I may be bleeding. But she? She’s finally going to rot.
Next day, I visit the detention center. No press was allowed inside. Just me and her.
It was staged as a “forgiveness visit“-something Cassian’s PR team carefully designed. They said it would paint me as gracious, merciful, calm in the face of violence..
I said yes, not because I wanted to forgive that witch, but because I wanted to look into her cracked little eyes one last time… and remind her who really won.
The room smelled like steel and bleach. Fluorescent lights buzzed like flies. There were two guards by the door, both watching closely, but I could already tell they thought I was two guards by the door, both watching an angel for doing this. Poor Celeste. Stabbed by a fan. Still finding it in her heart to forgive.
I walked in slow, shoulder still bandaged, black silk coat draped over my arm like armor. My heels echoed across the linoleum floor. She was already there, chained to the table like a dog in pearls.
Margaret.
Her hair was greasy and uneven. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes were red, swollen, twitching like she hadn’t slept in days. There were scratches on her neck probably self–inflicted and her hands were shaking, but not from weakness. From rage.
“Celeste,” she hissed the moment the door shut. “Come to gloat?”
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I smiled softly, sat down across from her, folded my hands on the table like a goddamn First Lady.
“No,” I said gently. “I came to forgive you.”
She laughed–loud and bitter. “You don’t even know what that means.”
I leaned forward slowly, keeping my voice soft enough that only she could hear.
“Oh but I do.”
“Forgiveness means letting go of revenge… and making room for power.”
She blinked. Jaw clenched. Nails digging into her palm.
I dropped the softness from my voice and let the ice take over. “And I could’ve killed you, Margaret. I could’ve shoved my stiletto into your eye while you were busy screaming like a lunatic. But playing the poor, fragile victim while you look completely unhinged?” I tilted my head, gave her the smallest smile. “That’s so much better.”
Margaret’s breath hitched. I saw her lip twitch.
Then I added, sweeter than sugar:
“By the way…” I leaned in, let my smirk bloom.
“I’M HARMONY.”
Her whole body jerked. Like something exploded inside her skull. She slammed both hands against the table and tried to lunge at me.
“YOU BITCH!” she screamed. “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU! SHE’S DANGEROUS!”
The guards jumped in instantly, yanked her back and slammed her against the wall, arms behind her, cuffs rattling.
I stood up slow, trembling just enough to sell the role, and stepped back like I was horrified. I even let a tear slide down. I pressed my palm gently to my chest.
“She… she said I’m… someone else,” I whispered to the guards. “She’s not well. She needs help.”
Margaret kept thrashing. “She’s Harmony Masterson! She faked her death! She’s manipulating all of you!”
“Miss Celeste,” one of the guards said gently, “you can go now. We’ll handle this.”
I nodded slowly, sniffled, and turned away like a broken little dove. I walked out with soft footsteps and a heavy heart.
But outside?
The second I stepped into daylight, the cameras were already waiting.
“Celeste! How are you feeling today?”
“Are you still pressing charges?”
“Do you believe Margaret had mental health issues?”
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“Do you believe Margaret had mental health issues?”
I didn’t say much. Just kept my voice soft and diplomatic and kind.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” I told them. “I came to let go. What happened was painful, but I believe in healing.”
And they ate it up. Every damn word. Tsk. They called me brave. They called her fallen.
The headlines the next hour?
“Celeste Visits Her Attacker: A Star With a Heart.”
“Margaret Masterson Spirals in Custody–Screams About Conspiracies.”
Pathetic.
The next day, I received a call from Cassian.
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His voice was low, calm, but there was a pause before he spoke–like he was measuring how much truth I could take before breakfast. He said one sentence. “Margaret’s dead.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t gasp or ask how. I just stared at the sea outside my balcony and waited. He told me it happened last night. That one of the guards stepped out for ten minutes and came back to screaming and blood. That she used a hidden blade, probably smuggled in by a crooked nurse or one of her bribed maids. That she sliced slow, like she wanted to feel every second of it. That she kept screaming Hakeem’s name over and over like a prayer no one wanted to answer.
She bled out. And Hakeem didn’t show up.
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The senator didn’t even claim the body. It was Hakeem’s men who quietly buried her. No press. No eulogy. Just cold dirt and a name carved on stone like it meant anything now.
Cassian asked me if I wanted to see the footage. I said yes.
When the talls, then whispering
Later that night, I sat in our war room, lights dim, screens glowing, and watched her final minutes. She was pacing, muttering, slamming her fists against the
something to herself again and again-“Call him. Call Hakeem. Call him i’m pregnant and I need him. Tell him I did everything for him…”
She was alone.
No lipstick. No designer shoes. No cameras. No fake tears for the crowd.
Just a blade. And silence.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t even blink. I just leaned closer to the screen and whispered:“You wanted to burn me alive in my past, Margaret.”
“Now you bled yourself dry in your own silence.”
Chapter 25
