Chapter 7
Weston Carrington refused to believe it. He was certain Celeste Monroe was orchestrating another ruse.
He rushed into the charred ruins of the estate, determined to find some clue that she had survived. If she had deceived him, she would pay a
steep price.
But there was nothing left but ashes.
The children’s gifts were discarded at the front, half–burnt remnants of what they once were.
Celeste was gone, leaving nothing behind.
He’d always thought of her as an untouchable Manhattan socialite whose love was too lofty to be genuine.
202 PM d
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Later, he convinced himself that she was a cunning strategist, a manipulator whose ambition made both her and their children repulsive.
Now that she had seemingly ended it all in death, severing every tie, he felt no triumph.
That night, Weston dreamt.
In his dream, he kept his promise and celebrated the twins‘ birthday. They tore into their presents, jumping and laughing, calling out, “Daddy!”
He didn’t speak Belle’s name; instead, he reached out and said, “Celeste, don’t leave.”
He didn’t push her away, but instead embraced her tightly.
When Celeste called, inviting him to see the children, he gladly accepted.
The family sat together at the table, sharing food and laughter.
In his sleep. Weston’s lips curled into a rare smile, lost in the sweetness of it.
A sudden clap of thunder jolted him awake. His hand reached for the empty space beside him, and reality set in.
The dream was ridiculous. He convinced himself it was nothing more than trauma from the fire.
Celeste was dead, just a drop of water vanished in the ocean.
Weston repeated to himself that his heart wouldn’t waver.
Meanwhile, in Grandma Lucille’s Homestead, I was starting over with Ethan and Lillian. Life in the countryside was peaceful and free from the suffocating weight of the city.
Once, my birthdays came with extravagant gifts like a private amusement park. Now, with roughened hands, I worked hard just to ensure my
children were fed and clothed.
Soon, the children were old enough for school.
To stay close to them, I began teaching at Little Pines Preschool, becoming “Mom” to all the children there.
Two years passed.
Every now and then, someone would suggest a suitor for me–a man with decent prospects, parents still alive, someone who could be a pillar in my life, better than struggling alone.
I would always smile and decline.
One day, the kids saw Weston on TV again.
He was even more successful now, giving interviews as a prominent Wall Street magnate. And naturally, Belle stood beside him.
A nosy reporter asked, “Mr. Carrington, it’s been two years since your wife passed. Are there plans to marry Ms. Knight?”
Weston pressed his lips together, but before he could respond, Belle chimed in with a grin, “We’ll have good news soon, so stay tuned!”
The kids glanced at me and quickly turned off the TV.
I gave them a nonchalant smile. “Let’s go catch some crawfish!”
The children cheered as
is we headed out.
When we returned, covered in mud and laughing, I thought I was seeing things.
Weston, the man I had painstakingly escaped from, stood at my doorstep.
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The ground at his feet was littered with cigarette butts, proof that he’d been waiting a long time.
