Chapter 2 #2
She was reading "The Demon's Bride," alone in the bakery at midnight, and she got to the claiming scene. I watched her pupils dilate. Watched her breathing change. Watched her unconsciously rock against the stool, seeking friction she didn't even understand she needed.
And then she cried. Not from sadness, but from wanting. From the ache of desiring something so intensely and thinking you'll never have it.
I knew that ache. I'd felt it for thirty-eight years, since those sixteen days in the warehouse. The need for someone to see past the control, past the power, past the carefully constructed walls, and want the broken thing underneath.
That's when the crack in my chest started.
Then I watched her dance alone at midnight, and the crack began to widen more and more.
Watched her touch herself through her clothes while reading, so fucking innocent she didn't even realize she was doing it, fingers pressing against the seam of her jeans in rhythm with whatever she was reading, and the crack split open.
Watched her look at couples in the bakery with such longing it physically hurt, and I shattered completely.
Now I'm sitting here at 2 AM, a grown man with more money than God, obsessing over a girl who doesn't even know how to touch herself properly.
Who reads about submission but has never felt the weight of a hand on her throat.
Who moans about frosting because she doesn't know what it's like to moan for other reasons.
"Jesus, Rothschild, you're completely fucked," I tell myself.
My phone buzzes. Marcus has sent a photo to the group chat. It's from tonight—Celeste in the bakery, face flushed, lip between her teeth, completely lost in her book. You can see the exact moment she realizes she's being watched by ten thousand people. The horror. The embarrassment. The shock.
And underneath all of that, buried but visible if you know what to look for—arousal. Pure, confused, desperate arousal.
Marcus:
We're going to ruin her, aren't we?
Jake:
In the best possible way.
Only if she lets us.
But I already know she will. Not because we're wealthy or connected or could give her anything she wants.
But because she's been ruined already, by all those books, all those fantasies she thinks will never come true.
She's prepared herself for us without knowing it.
Every book, every scene, every fantasy has been leading to this moment.
We're not her saviors. We're not her protectors, though we'll fill that role too.
We're her destruction, wrapped up in expensive suits and good intentions.
And tomorrow morning, it begins.
I pour myself another scotch—Macallan 25, because if you're going to day-drink your obsession, do it well—and open the file Rosalie left. Her instructions were specific, written in her elaborate handwriting:
William,
Wait six months. Let her grieve. Let her find herself in the bakery, in the books, in the solitude. Then tell her everything. Show her the room. Give her the choice.
But whatever you do, William Rothschild, don't let her face it alone.
She's stronger than she knows, but she'll need anchors.
Be those anchors. You, Marcus, and Jake.
I've watched you all, just as you'll watch her.
I know what you are beneath the success and the suits. I know the darkness you carry.
That darkness? She has it too. Hidden under all that sweetness. The girl who reads about monsters wants to become one. Help her find it. Help her use it.
And if you fall in love with her in the process, well, that's just a bonus.
She's been alone her whole life, William. Her parents were ghosts long before they disappeared. I tried to fill that void, but an old woman's love isn't the same as what she really needs. What she craves. What those books she hides promise her.
Give her what she needs. All three of you. She'll resist at first—she's been taught to be good, to be small, to want appropriate things. But underneath? She's mine. She's got the Moretti blood. And that blood wants what it wants.
Don't let her be alone anymore.
-R
"You manipulative old bitch," I murmur fondly, raising my glass to her memory.
Rosalie saw it all coming. Set it all up.
Even her death was timed perfectly—six months to establish patterns, routines, for us to get to know her without her knowing us.
Six months for the grief to settle, for Celeste to get comfortable, to think she was safe.
Now the real game begins.
I close the files and stand, stretching muscles that protest sitting in one position for hours. In five hours, she'll walk into that breakfast room. She'll see us all together for the first time. She'll learn about the empire built on blood and frosting.
And she'll either run screaming or embrace what she's always been meant to become.
My money's on the latter.
Because Celeste Monroe doesn't know it yet, but she's got Rosalie Moretti's blood in her veins.
The same woman who built a criminal network while selling cupcakes.
Who could kill a man with a smile and cannoli.
Who ran numbers through the bakery for forty years without anyone suspecting.
Who loved fiercely and protected violently.
I walk to my window, looking out at Baltimore's skyline.
Three miles away in her cramped apartment above the yoga studio on Charles Street, she's probably lying in bed, thinking about tomorrow.
Second floor, bedroom facing the alley where she keeps the blinds cracked just enough for moonlight but not enough for anyone to see in.
Her laptop will be open beside her—she always falls asleep with it there, usually with an e-reader app still running.
"Seven AM, little baker," I say to the night. "Your education begins."