Chapter 6 false Fronts
Celeste Bellerose
Celeste barely glanced at the headlines before shoving her phone onto the kitchen counter.
The glossy image of her and Nick, locked in what looked like an intimate embrace, was splashed across the front page of every gossip site.
The headlines weren’t subtle. They painted her as reckless, impulsive, caught up in a scandal that was already spiraling out of her control.
And Juliette was helping fuel the flames.
Celeste didn’t even have to open the articles to know what her sister had done.
Juliette had always been an expert in the art of public perception, and this time was no different.
She’d given carefully curated statements, chosen her words with surgical precision, and made sure every angle of her public image reflected that of a concerned, heartbroken sister—one just trying to reach out in love and understanding.
She hadn’t gone for outright scandal; that wasn’t her style. No, Juliette was smarter than that. Instead, she framed her words with just the right amount of regret and affection, as if speaking about a wayward sibling who had always been a little too impulsive for her own good.
"I love my sister deeply," one interview quoted, "but Celeste has always been wild at heart, fiercely independent. I just worry that in moments like these, emotions can cloud judgment. And in a situation as dangerous as this, I only hope she’s making the safest choices for herself. We all want to see her protected."
It was a masterful performance, wrapped in feigned concern, dripping with carefully veiled condescension.
She wasn’t attacking Celeste outright—that would be too obvious.
Instead, she played the disappointed but devoted sister, wringing her hands in public while subtly reinforcing the idea that Celeste was reckless, emotional, and incapable of handling her own life without interference.
The media had eaten it up.
Every major outlet had picked up Juliette’s statements, framing her as the poised, rational sister trying to do damage control.
Photos of Juliette looking somber yet graceful—probably taken in carefully staged ‘candid’ moments—accompanied each piece.
In some, she was looking away, a thoughtful, almost pained expression on her face.
In others, she was mid-conversation, as if discussing her sister’s plight in hushed, worried tones.
Then there were the headlines:
Juliette Bellerose Speaks Out: ‘I Just Want My Sister to Be Safe’
Heartache for the Bellerose Family: Juliette’s Quiet Plea for Celeste’s Safety
Sisterly Concern or Subtle Shade? Juliette’s Take on Celeste’s Public Struggles
Celeste’s blood boiled.
It wasn’t just that Juliette had gone to the press. It was how she had done it. The delicate balance of playing both victim and savior, the effortless way she wove the situation without outright lying. By the time Celeste had a chance to defend herself, the damage would already be done.
Juliette had positioned herself as the reliable Bellerose, the one who remained graceful and controlled even in the face of a family scandal. And Celeste?
She was the impulsive, emotional sister spiraling in the arms of a brooding NYPD officer.
And just like that, Juliette had found a way to spin even this in her favor.
Subtle. Manipulative. Classic Juliette.
Nick’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You should eat something.”
Celeste looked up to find him leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His expression was concerning, but his gaze turned to her untouched plate.
She huffed. “I’ll eat when I don’t feel like throwing up.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he grabbed his coffee and took a slow sip, watching her.
Celeste exhaled sharply. “She’s enjoying this. Juliette. Playing the doting sister for the cameras, acting like she’s concerned for my well-being while slipping little seeds of doubt only to gather pity for herself.”
Nick set his cup down. “Is that what she does? Undermines you in public while pretending to care?”
A bitter smile tugged at Celeste’s lips. “She’s a master at it. It’s never outright betrayal—just enough to make people question. It’s always been that way.”
Nick studied her for a long moment. “So, the question is, is she doing this to humiliate you? Or is she covering her own tracks?”
Celeste hesitated. She wanted to believe that Juliette wouldn’t go that far. That however strained their relationship was, it wasn’t beyond repair. But the nagging doubt wouldn’t go away.
“I need to talk to her,” she said finally.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Nick questions.
“No.” She grabbed her coat. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
***
Juliette’s penthouse was as lavish as Celeste remembered—modern, pristine, and meticulously designed with a level of perfection only Juliette could achieve.
Every piece of furniture was curated for maximum aesthetic appeal, each detail deliberate, as if the space had been staged rather than lived in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a breathtaking view of Manhattan’s glittering skyline, but the sleek, almost clinical arrangement of the room dulled any sense of comfort the city lights might have provided.
The living room was a study in high-end minimalism, with sharp geometric lines and a color palette of cool neutrals—white, slate gray, deep espresso.
A glass coffee table, nearly invisible against the polished hardwood floors, sat untouched, adorned only with a single sculptural centerpiece, its placement so exact that Celeste wondered if Juliette ever actually used this space.
The sofa, upholstered in a pale dove-gray fabric that probably cost more than most people’s annual salary, was pristine, its cushions plumped to perfection.
Not a single personal touch—no framed photos, no dog-eared books, not even a discarded throw blanket—gave any indication that someone truly lived here.
Juliette had always preferred spaces that looked impeccable over ones that felt welcoming.
It had been the same in their childhood home—every item positioned just so, a silent testament to control.
But here, in her own penthouse, that cold perfection was amplified. It was a showpiece, not a sanctuary.
A sleek bar cart stood against the far wall, stocked with the finest spirits—whiskey from Scotland, vodka imported from Russia, rare vintages of wine that had never been uncorked.
Above it, an abstract painting in shades of gold and black hung as a statement piece, its meaning as obscure as Juliette’s intentions.
Celeste let her gaze drift to the far side of the room, where a pristine marble fireplace sat unused, a single flickering candle on the mantle the only indication of warmth. But it wasn’t real warmth—not the kind that made a home feel like more than just four walls and expensive decor.
That was Juliette in a nutshell.
Cold. Flawless. Assumingly untouchable.
Even the scent of the penthouse was carefully curated, the faintest trace of amber and sandalwood in the air—luxury in fragrance form, too polished to be comforting.
It was the kind of space that felt more like a designer showroom than a home, and for Celeste, stepping into it felt like stepping into enemy territory.
She folded her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line. Nothing about this place had changed.
And that, more than anything, told her that Juliette hadn’t either.
Juliette, draped in a silk robe and looking effortlessly composed, barely raised an eyebrow when she opened the door. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Celeste pushed past her, not in the mood for games. “Cut the act, Juliette.”
Juliette sighed, closing the door behind her. “I assume this is about the interview.”
Celeste turned, arms crossed. “Do you even hear yourself? You know the kind of danger I’m in, and instead of helping, you’re feeding the media frenzy.”
Juliette arched a delicate brow. “I was asked for my thoughts. I gave them.”
“You crafted them,” Celeste shot back. “You twisted everything to make me look reckless, make yourself look like the composed, long-suffering sister.”
Juliette’s expression didn’t change. “If that’s what you choose to believe, that’s on you.”
Celeste inhaled sharply, forcing herself to stay calm. “Are you involved in this?”
Juliette’s mask slipped, just a fraction. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Celeste took a step closer, searching her sister’s face. “Are you involved with Adrian? Did you leak that photo?”
Juliette scoffed. “Do you really think I would work with your stalker?”
Celeste didn’t answer. She wanted to believe Juliette wouldn’t go that far—but things weren’t adding up. The sudden money troubles, the questionable meetings, the well-timed media spin.
Juliette’s lips curled into something between amusement and irritation. “Honestly, Celeste, I should be insulted. If I wanted to take you down, I wouldn’t need a psychopath’s help.”
Celeste’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t a denial.
Before she could press further, a wave of nausea crashed over her. She swayed slightly, gripping the edge of the nearest chair.
Juliette frowned. “Are you—?”
“I need to go.” Celeste turned sharply, making a beeline for the door before she lost whatever composure she had left.
She didn’t stop moving until she was outside, gulping fresh air.
The conversation left Celeste drained. The constant battle of pushing and pulling, of navigating Juliette’s carefully chosen words, took more out of her than she cared to admit.
By the time she left, her body felt sluggish, her head a little too heavy on her shoulders.
She chalked it up to exhaustion—too many sleepless nights, too much stress.
Nick was waiting outside, leaning casually against the car, but the moment his eyes landed on her, they sharpened. “You look like hell.”
Celeste rolled her eyes, pushing past him. “Charming as always, Officer Malone.”
He fell into step beside her, opening the car door. “I mean it. You’re pale.”
She waved him off. “Just tired.”
But as she slid into the passenger seat, a strange wave of nausea twisted in her stomach, making her pause. It was gone as fast as it came, nothing more than a moment of discomfort, but still, it unsettled her.
Nick noticed. He didn’t say anything, but the glance he shot her as he slid into the driver’s seat told her he was filing it away.
She ignored it.
Celeste shook her head, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Just drive.”
She barely noticed the city rushing past, her mind spinning too fast to focus.
She needed answers.
Her world was already upside down. The last thing she needed was another problem.
But right now? Right now, all she could think about was the sinking realization twisting in her gut.
Something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.