Chapter 12 Breaking Barriers
Celeste Bellerose
Celeste’s blood turned to ice.
She could barely register the caretaker’s voice as he rattled off details about the house—how it had been maintained, who had been responsible for its upkeep, the names of visitors who had come and gone over the years. It was all just white noise against the pounding in her ears.
Her mind was locked on the photograph.
The little girl in the image—blond, wide-eyed, smiling without a care in the world—stood right in front of the very house they were in now. The ivy-covered walls, the grand double doors, the stone pathway leading to the entrance—it was all the same. Unchanged. Frozen in time.
But it wasn’t just the setting that left her cold.
It was the man beside her.
Not her father.
Not someone she recognized.
Yet, there was something disturbingly familiar about him. The way his hand rested on her small shoulder. The way he stood slightly behind her, protective yet distant. The way his gaze—direct, possessive, almost tender—lingered on her instead of the camera.
And on the back of the photograph, scrawled in ink that had long since begun to fade:
Bastien Laurent.
Celeste’s pulse slammed against her ribs.
Juliette’s middle name.
A name she had never given much thought to before. A name she had assumed was simply a choice, an old family tradition.
Her hands tightened around the photo as a slow, creeping realization crawled up her spine, an awful, twisting sensation that made her stomach lurch. Why was this man standing next to her in a photo she had no memory of?
Nick must have sensed her unraveling, because his hand came to rest against the small of her back. A grounding touch. A silent question.
She turned toward the caretaker, her voice barely steady. “Tell me about Bastien Laurent.”
The old man stilled.
Wallace Tremblay’s easy demeanor faltered. His hands, weathered from years of labor, clenched slightly at his sides. His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Miss Bellerose,” he said slowly, cautiously, “there are things buried in this house that were never meant to be dug up.”
Nick stepped forward, his presence imposing, his tone edged with warning. “Then it’s time someone started sharing what he knows, or I’m taking a shovel to every inch of this property.”
The caretaker hesitated, his throat bobbing with something unsaid.
Then, finally, in a voice laced with reluctant resignation, he exhaled:
“Your mother wasn’t the only one keeping secrets, Miss Bellerose. Your father had his own.”
And just like that, the ground beneath Celeste’s world began to crack.
The sepia-toned image now in Celeste’s hands wasn’t just any old memory—it was her.
A little girl, no older than five, standing in front of this very house. Her blonde curls framed her face, her tiny hands clutched a stuffed bear, and beside her stood a man—one who wasn’t her father.
Celeste’s pulse roared in her ears.
She felt she’d been here before. The faint familiarity, the vague recollection of hushed conversations between her parents about a house they rarely spoke of. But this—this was proof. Undeniable proof.
Nick’s fingers brushed her arm. “Celeste.”
She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at him.
The caretaker—a grizzled man in his sixties—continued talking, seemingly oblivious to the storm raging inside Celeste.
Deep lines creased his sun-weathered face, his steel-gray beard trimmed short but not precisely neat.
His clothes were practical—an old flannel shirt over a worn thermal, heavy-duty work pants, and scuffed boots that had clearly seen years of labor.
Everything about him spoke of a man who belonged to the land, someone who had lived through enough to be cautious, yet wise enough to know when silence was safer than words.
“This property’s been maintained for years,” he said, his voice a rough blend of French-Canadian accent and a lifetime of cigarette smoke.
“Mister Laurent left instructions for its care.” He scratched at his stubbled jaw, regarding Celeste with wary curiosity.
“Didn’t expect anyone to actually show up, though. ”
Nick leaned against the desk, arms crossed, studying Tremblay with the same level of scrutiny he reserved for suspects. “You’re telling me you’ve been watching over this place for Bastien Laurent?” His tone was sharp, calculated. “The man who’s supposed to be dead?”
Wallace let out a slow breath through his nose. “Depends on who you ask,” he muttered, running a rough hand over his jaw. “Far as the world’s concerned, he is. But I knew better. You don’t work for a man like Bastien Laurent for twenty-odd years without learning a thing or two.”
Celeste’s fingers tightened around the photograph still clutched in her hands. “So, you did more than just ‘maintain’ the house,” she said slowly.
Wallace’s eyes dull and unreadable. “You could say that. Back in the day, I handled things—discreetly. Managed the property, sure, but also made sure no one poked around where they shouldn’t. Kept the wrong kind of eyes off this place.”
Nick narrowed his gaze. “And what exactly were you protecting?”
Wallace hesitated, old loyalties, and unspoken truths pressing visibly against his conscience. Then, with a heavy sigh, he walked over to the bookshelf, running a calloused hand over the dusty wood.
“This place,” he said, voice lower now, as if the walls had ears.
“It wasn’t just a house to Laurent. It was a vault.
A sanctuary. He kept things here—records, names, proof of deals made in the dark.
Your father, Celeste—he was involved in things he never wanted to leave a paper trail for.
But Bastien?” He gave a dry, humorless chuckle.
“Bastien was smart. He believed in insurance policies. Kept documents locked away, just in case he ever needed leverage.”
Celeste’s breath hitched. “Leverage against my father?”
Wallace nodded. “And others. Politicians, businessmen, even law enforcement. People with power. The kind of power that doesn’t come clean.” His eyes shifted toward the hidden door they had discovered. “That room you found? That’s where the real stories are written.”
Nick shot Celeste a look. “So, if this place is some kind of blackmail vault, why haven’t you taken what’s inside and sold it to the highest bidder?”
Wallace scoffed. “You think I’m stupid? That’s a surefire way to end up dead.
” His expression hardened. “I stayed loyal to Bastien because he gave me a life when I had nothin’.
But when he left for France, I knew my job wasn’t over.
If those records fall into the wrong hands—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly.
“Let’s just say the right people want them buried. ”
Celeste felt something cold settle in her chest. “And what about Juliette?”
Wallace’s gaze shifted, something almost cautious crossing his expression. “She’s been here before. Not often. But enough to make me wonder if she already knows more than she’s letting on.”
Nick straightened, his entire demeanor sharpening. “How recent?”
Wallace ran a hand down his face. “Last year. Showed up unannounced. Asked questions. Looked nervous.” His gaze darkened. “Now that you’re here, I don’t reckon that was a coincidence.”
Celeste’s stomach twisted. Juliette had been here. Had seen this place. And yet, she had never said a word.
Nick pushed off the desk, his stance shifting into high alert. “If that’s the case, then we need to move fast. Because if Juliette has already been sniffing around, someone else might be too.”
Wallace’s expression turned grim. “Then I hope you’re ready for what you’re about to find in that room.”
Nick still holding a tight grip on the photograph. His voice dropped an octave, edged with calculated control. “Just to be clear, you’re saying Bastien Laurent owns this place?”
Wallace shrugged. “Technically, yeah. But he hasn’t set foot here in decades.”
Celeste finally looked up, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then why was I here?”
Wallace’s brows knitted together. “What?”
She pointed to the photo. “Why was I here as a child? Why am I standing in front of this house?”
Something shifted in Wallace’s expression. The casual ease he carried suddenly turned into something wary. He hesitated, then exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Nick’s stance locked. “Know what?”
Wallace looked between them, his eyes landing on Celeste for a beat too long. Like he was seeing something that wasn’t supposed to be there.
“That ain’t for me to say,” he muttered, shaking his head. “If Bastien wanted you to know, he’d have told you.”
Celeste’s heart pounded. “Well, he didn’t.” Her voice cracked. “So, keep talking.”
Wallace remained silent.
Nick stepped forward, his entire body radiating authority and dominance. “I don’t have the patience for games. One way to or another the information is coming out of you.”
Wallace sighed. “Look, all I know is what I was told—this house has been in his name for years. But the way he spoke about it?” He hesitated. “It was never really his.”
A frigid wave rolled through Celeste’s veins. Then whose was it?
Before she could ask, Wallace shifted uncomfortably. “You should go,” he said abruptly. “You don’t wanna dig up ghosts that don’t wanna be dug up.”
Nick rubbing the tension from his jaw. “You see anyone sniffing around here recently?”
Wallace shook his head. “No, but that don’t mean they ain’t watching.” His gaze turned toward Sabre, standing guard near the door. “Your dog knew someone was here before you did.”
Nick’s features hardened.
Celeste swallowed back the unease creeping up her spine. If this house had answers, they were buried under layers of deception. And she wasn’t leaving until she got the answers she came for.
The cold evening air circled around her as she stepped away from the caretaker, her pulse a steady thrum against her ribs. Wallace Tremblay had given them plenty to think about, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling them everything.
“For now, Mr. Tremblay, you can go but we may need to ask a few more questions.”
“I’ll be around, where am I gonna go?”
Nick was already moving, a silent force of focus, his steps heavy against the aged wooden floors. Sabre stayed close to his side, his sharp gaze bouncing between them and the darkened corners of the house, ever watchful.
Without another word, they stepped back inside the house.
The tension followed them.
Nick set the photo down on the wooden desk, studying it like it held the answers he needed. Celeste lingered near the doorframe, arms crossed, fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeves.
“You knew,” she finally said.
Nick’s eyes lifted. “Knew what?”
“That something was off.” Her voice trembled. “Back at the apartment, when you showed me that message—you already suspected.”
Nick ran a hand through his hair. “You think I wanted to?”
She exhaled sharply. “Nick—”
He pushed off the desk. Walked toward her. The air shifted—charged, volatile. “I didn’t want to believe it, Celeste. But you’ve been running from your past since the day I met you.”
She stiffened. “I’m not running.”
“Then what the hell do you call this?” Nick gestured with his arms flinging out to each side of his body.
Silence. Thick. Suffocating.
Nick’s hand lifted, his fingers brushing along her jaw. The touch was featherlight, yet it sent fire licking down her spine.
Celeste swallowed. “I don’t know how to face something I don’t remember.”
His thumb grazed her lower lip. “Then let’s find out together.”
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t reckless. It was deliberate—like he was memorizing her, savoring every second. His lips moved over hers with aching slowness, his warmth wrapping around her like a quiet promise.
Celeste’s breath hitched as she melted into him, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Nick’s grip on her waist was firm but gentle, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against her hip.
There was no urgency, no desperate hunger—just the unspoken understanding between them. That they didn’t have to rush. That this moment was theirs, unfolding in the quiet space between past wounds and uncertain futures.
Nick pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers in the stillness. His hands, rough from years of work, cradled her face with a tenderness that made her chest tighten.
"You don’t always have to be strong, Celeste," he murmured, his voice hushed but steady. "Not with me."
Her throat tightened. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear that.
She closed her eyes, pressing her cheek against his, allowing herself—for just a moment—to lean into his warmth, his strength, the quiet safety he offered without hesitation.
She wanted to lose herself in him. To forget. To let his warmth chase away the uncertainty.
But when Nick’s hands slid beneath her shirt, his lips traced the sensitive curve of her throat—
She froze.
It hit her like a jolt of cold water. The intimacy. The vulnerability. The way everything in her life had shifted so fast, spiraling out of control.
Nick noticed immediately. His grip loosened, his breath still heavy, but his movements stilled.
“Celeste?” His voice was husky, rough with need, but laced with concern.
She clenched her eyes shut, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “I can’t—” She swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Not here.”
For a moment, she braced for frustration, for tension. But Nick just studied her, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly, he nodded.
His hands moved, sliding from her waist to her face, his calloused palms warm against her skin. He tilted her chin gently, his thumb brushing over her cheek.
“Then we don’t.”
No anger. No impatience. Just quiet, steady understanding.
Something in her chest unraveled. Her shoulders sinking as the tension bled out.
Nick didn’t let go right away. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead—soft, lingering, a silent reassurance that she wasn’t alone.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured against her skin.
And somehow, that unraveled her more than anything else.
The night settled in.
Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, the dim glow of the bedside lamp burning ever so lightly. The photograph lay in her lap, her fingers tracing the edges, worn smooth by time.
The little girl—her—standing in front of this house.
Someone had taken this picture. Someone had kept it hidden in her mother’s things.
Why?
Her stomach twisted. What else had been buried, lost in the gaps of her past?
Her phone vibrated against the wooden nightstand. The vibration startled her.
She reached for it, pulse pounding as she swiped at the screen. A new message.
Unknown Number: "Enjoy your trip down memory lane? Funny how the past can come back to haunt you."
A chill crawled down her spine.
She stared at the message, at the stark black letters against the white screen.
The past wasn’t just catching up to her.
It had been waiting.
Watching.
And now—it was coming after her.