BRETT’S POV
I had imagined this moment more times than I cared to admit.
In those imaginings, I was composed. Detached. Indifferent.
And when I stepped into the living room and saw Celeste fall to her knees, eyes widening as recognition dawned, imagination met reality.
Celeste Lockwood had always known how to hold a room with nothing but posture and a smile.
Even kneeling, she carried herself like a dethroned queen rather than a disgraced conspirator.
But that magnetic force that once pulled me helplessly into her orbit had vanished, leaving something brittle in its wake.
I thought I had already seen the worst of her vanity. The worst of her cruelty.
During our years together, I witnessed her jealousy flare like wildfire. I endured the subtle barbs and the silent treatments at the slightest infractions.
Yet even then, I had believed—fool that I was—that her viciousness came from fragility.
That it was armor.
That beneath it, there was something soft.
