Chapter 8
Elsewhere, inside the Grand Bellevue–Westbridge Heights’s most extravagant hotel–Declan Hawthorne’s birthday gala was in full swing.
As the heir to Hawthorne International and one of the most powerful men in the region, Declan’s
party was the event of the season. The ballroom buzzed with elite guests—-old–money heirs,
socialites, CEOs—each one hoping to catch a moment with the man of the hour.
But said man of the hour stood off to the side, drink untouched, his
gaze
unfocused.
And his friends noticed.
“Is it just me, or has Marissa not shown up yet?” one of them asked, scanning the room.
“There’s no way she forgot,” another chimed in. “Marissa’s never missed Declan’s birthday. Not
once.”
“Exactly. And we’re halfway through the party already. She’s never this late.”
They exchanged glances, silent agreement passing between them. Then all eyes turned to Declan.
Still distracted. Still distant.
Finally, Tristan couldn’t hold it in. “Maybe you should give her a call?”
“No need,” Declan replied, shaking his head like it was no big deal. “She’s probably just getting my
gift ready.”
The guys exchanged another look but let it go. Maybe he was right.
Then came the gift–giving segment of the evening. Tristan and the others each presented their gifts, drawing laughter and polite applause. Then it was Celeste’s turn.
Despite their lingering distaste for her–after all, she’d once left Declan high and dry–they said
nothing. Not tonight.
She approached the stage with soft eyes and a demure smile, cradling a gift box wrapped in shimmering gold paper.
“Declan, this is from me-”
She didn’t get to finish.
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Declan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and in an instant, his face turned pale.
Without a word, he shoved past Celeste and bolted from the ballroom.
Caught off guard, Celeste stumbled backward and crashed to the floor. A sharp cry escaped her as
pain shot up her side and tears welled in her eyes.
“Declan!” she cried, reaching out instinctively. But he never even looked back.
He was already gone.
A stunned silence fell over the crowd. No one knew what had just happened.
Tristan and the rest exchanged wide–eyed looks. Then someone whispered the obvious:
“Wait… could something have happened to Marissa?”
Panic set in fast. The guys rushed after Declan, pushing through the ballroom doors and leaving
Celeste behind–sitting on the floor, fists clenched and teeth gritted.
Marissa. Always Marissa.
But no one cared what Celeste thought.
Declan tore through the night, racing across town and up the drive to the Hawthorne estate.
Inside, the house was empty.
Still, he didn’t stop. He ran upstairs, flinging open doors, checking every room, every drawer, every
closet.
Gone.
Not just Marissa–everything that belonged to her. Her scent, her books, her sketches, even the
tiny mug she always used for chamomile tea. Gone.
He stood frozen in the middle of her room, chest heaving, staring at the quiet emptiness. Then he looked down at his phone.
A message sat on the screen.
[Declan, I’m leaving. Wishing you and Celeste a love that never fades. May you grow old together.]
Her name, her number–still there in his contacts.
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Like he’d just remembered something vital, he suddenly hit call.
He didn’t even realize how badly his hands were shaking.
The dial tone rang. Again and again.
But she didn’t pick up.
Just as the line clicked off, the doorbell rang.
He didn’t remember walking down the stairs.
Didn’t remember opening the door.
But there stood Tristan and the others, breathing hard from the run.
“Declan,” Tristan asked, concern all over his face, “what happened? Did something happen to
Marissa?”
Declan opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
His throat burned. His chest ached.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the weight in his voice.
After a long pause, he finally rasped out-
“Marissa said… she’s gone.”
