Chapter 10 Layers of Deception
Celeste Bellerose
The world felt different in the morning.
Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, the early morning light spilling through the window in soft golden streaks.
Her fingers brushed over the delicate chain of her necklace, absently tracing the contours of the pendant against her collarbone.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been awake—long enough to hear the rhythmic rise and fall of Nick’s breath beside her, long enough for the unease in her gut to settle into something heavier.
She had spent the night wrapped in the warmth of his body, lost in the way his touch made her forget everything else. But reality had a cruel way of creeping back in, slipping beneath the locked doors and bolted windows, whispering secrets she in her ears.
She turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder.
Nick wasn’t asleep.
He was awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
His hands resting loosely against the sheets. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her, but she could feel it—the shift, in his demeaner.
Her stomach twisted.
“Nick?” Her voice was softer than she intended.
He blinked, then slowly turned his head toward her, his expression neutral. “You okay?”
The question landed differently than usual. He had asked her that before—after the fashion show, after the messages, after every moment of vulnerability. But this time, the delivery behind it felt different.
Like he wasn’t just asking about her safety.
Like he was asking about something more.
“I should be asking you that,” she murmured, searching his face. “You’ve been lying there for a while.”
Nick exhaled, running a hand over his face before sitting up, resting his forearms against his knees. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Liar.
His tone was too even, too controlled. She knew Nick well enough now to recognize when something was wrong.
She reached for him, pressing a hand against his forearm. “Nick, what’s going on?”
He hesitated—just long enough for her to know that whatever it was, he was debating telling her.
And that terrified her.
After a moment, he reached toward the nightstand, grabbing his phone. He turned the screen toward her.
Her stomach dropped.
A text message.
Anonymous Number: "You’re looking in the wrong places, Malone. It’s not just Adrian. Look into the family secrets, she’s not telling you."
Celeste’s fingers curled into the sheets. “What the hell is this?”
Nick didn’t answer right away. He was watching her, waiting.
Waiting for what? For her to confess? To confirm some deep, dark secret she didn’t even know existed?
Something sharp lodged itself in her chest.
“You think this is about me?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
Nick exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “Who else would it be?”
His words landed like a slap—unexpected and far too sharp.
Celeste swallowed hard. “You think I’ve been lying to you.”
His gaze turned to her, dark and unreadable. “I think your family has secrets, Celeste. I think there are things you don’t know. And if we’re gonna stay ahead of this, you need to start looking in the places to find out just what these secrets are.”
She wanted to be angry.
Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that her family wasn’t like that, that whatever this person was trying to stir up was bullshit.
But she couldn’t.
Because deep down, she already knew the truth.
Her family did have secrets.
Ones that had been locked away for years. Ones she had never dared to question.
Until now.
Her chest rose and fell sharply as she pushed off the bed, grabbing the first piece of clothing she could find—Nick’s discarded button-up from the night before. She slipped it on, rolling the sleeves up her arms as she moved toward the door.
Nick watched her carefully. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t look back. “To find some damn answers.”
***
The Bellerose estate was as imposing as ever.
Celeste moved carefully through the dimly lit study, her footsteps soundless against the thick Persian rug.
Dressed in fitted dark-wash jeans and white lace-up sneakers, she had traded her usual high-end fashion for something more practical.
The sleeves of Nick’s button-down were rolled up to her elbows, the fabric slightly oversized on her frame but comforting in its familiarity.
Her long blonde hair was pulled into a loose tie-back, keeping it out of her face.
She does this often when she is in her serious mood.
There was something unsettling about being in her childhood home dressed like this, stripped of the persona the world expected from Celeste Bellerose.
It made her feel like she was an outsider in a life she had once lived.
But today, there was no audience, no cameras, no staged perfection.
Just her, the cold truth lurking in the shadows, and the secrets waiting to be unearthed.
It was a house full of ghosts.
Her mother’s old bedroom was a time capsule of a life frozen in place—untouched, unchanged, hauntingly pristine.
The air was thick with the lingering scent of Chanel No.
5, clinging to the silk curtains and velvet chaise like a ghostly embrace.
The vanity, a masterpiece of carved mahogany and gold trim, was still cluttered with crystal perfume bottles, each one a relic of an era when her mother reigned over Manhattan’s elite with effortless grace.
Celeste’s fingers brushed over the dustless surface, her reflection echoing in the antique mirror—older now, different, yet still carrying the same features her mother once did.
The armoire loomed against the far wall, its doors slightly ajar as if waiting.
Inside, rows of designer gowns hung in perfect order, their sequins catching the faint light from the chandelier.
Dresses meant for galas and high-society functions, now doomed to eternal stillness.
A chill prickled down Celeste’s spine. The room was too perfect. As if someone had been tending to it. As if the past refused to let go.
She swallowed hard, pushing back the lump rising in her throat. She had come here for answers, not ghosts.
And yet, standing in the middle of that untouched sanctuary, she couldn’t shake the feeling that secrets were buried here, waiting for her to dig them up.
She hesitated before stepping inside.
It felt wrong.
Like she was unwelcomed in a place that had long since been sealed away. Like a mummy’s tomb.
But she needed to do this.
She moved toward the antique jewelry box on the vanity. The same one she had seen a hundred times as a child. The same one her mother had always been so careful with. Celeste had a feeling if mother had secrets, they’d be found in there.
She flipped the lid open.
Jewelry glittered under the soft light—gold, diamonds, precious stones. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
A small, folded envelope.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled it out, carefully unfolding the delicate paper.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The note was written in elegant, looping script.
"If you’ve found this, it means I’m gone. And that the truth is no longer safe in my hands."
Celeste’s pulse pounded as her eyes scanned the rest of the letter.
"Juliette knows more than she lets on. Trust is a dangerous thing in our family. Protect yourself."
The air in the room suddenly felt too thin.
Her fingers curled around the paper, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs.
Juliette.
She had always been at the center of things, always lurking in the background, manipulating, playing to others’ weaknesses. That was her specialty, even when she was a little girl.
But how much did she really know?
And how far would she go to keep Celeste from finding out?
A sharp knock on the doorframe made her jump.
She spun, clutching the letter to her chest.
Nick stood in the doorway, his gaze bouncing from her face to the open jewelry box.
His voice was quiet. “Find what you were looking for?”
Celeste swallowed hard, her grip tightening around the letter.
“I think I just found something worse.”
Nick stepped forward, his eyes locked onto hers. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, she handed him the letter.
He read it, his expression hardening with every word.
Then, before either of them could speak, a small clink sounded against the hardwood floor.
They both looked down.
A key.
It had fallen from the envelope, landing just beside Celeste’s foot.
Nick crouched, picking it up. He turned it over in his palm, his brow furrowing.
It was old. Worn.
Not just any key.
A small, nondescript key—unmarked, unfamiliar. It was attached to a faded leather tag, the edges worn smooth with time. No bank name. No address. Just a series of numbers etched into the metal.
Not a safe deposit box.
A property.
But where?
Beneath it, lay a photograph.
The image was faded, the colors muted by time, the edges curling slightly. But the man standing beside her father wasn’t someone she recognized.
Nick took the photograph from her hand, his expression darkening as he studied it. “Who the hell is this?”
Celeste swallowed hard, a strange unease settling in her stomach. “I don’t know.”
Nick turned the photograph over. There, scrawled in faint ink, was a date.
And a name.
Bastien Laurent.
Celeste’s stomach turned. Laurent. Juliette’s middle name.
Nick’s fingers tightened around the photo, his gaze snapping to hers, sharp with realization.
Celeste stared at it, dread crawling up her spine.
Her mother had left this behind. Hidden it away.
Because she had been afraid of what would happen if it was found.
Nick’s grip tightened around the photo. His gaze lifted to hers, sharp and knowing.
Nick exhaled, his jaw tightening. “Looks like we just found our next lead.”
But Celeste wasn’t looking at him anymore.
The conversation, Nick’s presence, the very air in the room faded to the background as her focus locked onto the photograph in her trembling hands.
A cold, eerie sensation crawled up her spine, her breath catching as she noticed it—a detail she had overlooked seconds ago.
A detail that now screamed at her in sharp, undeniable clarity.
The background.
Her fingers tightened around the fragile edges of the old image, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The house. She knew that house. Not from stories, but from forgotten childhood memories.
Nick’s voice barely cut through the static roaring in her ears. “Celeste?”
She lifted her head, her eyes wide, her skin suddenly too tight.
The house.
Not just any house.
Her pulse quickened. She knew that house.
Not well. Only a brief summer visit. Also, from hushed conversations between her parents, from fragments of childhood memory she had never been able to place.
It was tucked away in the background, slightly blurred, but unmistakable.
The sloping roof, the ivy creeping up the stone facade, the white-trimmed windows.
Her father had owned that house.
She was sure of it.
Nick noticed the shift in her expression immediately. “Celeste?”
She didn’t answer right away, reaching out to trace the faint outline of the building in the photograph as a wave of something cold and uneasy settled deep in her bones.
“This house,” she murmured. “I’ve seen it before. A long time ago.”
Nick straightened, his focus sharpening. “Where?”
Celeste swallowed. “It belonged to my father. Or at least, he was connected to it. I remember overhearing my parents talk about it when I was younger, but I never knew why it was important.
Nick studied the photograph again, flipping it back over to inspect the date. “This was taken almost three decades ago.” He glanced at the key still resting in the box. “And if this key belongs to that house…”
“We need to go there.”
Nick nodded, already shifting into action mode. “Then pack a bag, princess.” His voice was firm, certain. “We leave first thing in the morning.”
Celeste’s grip tightened around the photograph as a storm of emotions surged within her—apprehension, anticipation, and a nagging fear that whatever secrets had been buried in that house…
They were never meant to be uncovered.