21. Celina
TWENTY-ONE
CELINA
Seven days had passed since the confrontation beneath the iconic Hollywood sign, where Osias had been forced to end Rennick’s life after the man who’d shaped her existence for thirty years had tried to kill her rather than lose control of her.
The memory still felt surreal—like footage from someone else’s nightmare that occasionally flickered through her consciousness when she let her guard down.
Celina sat in the passenger seat of Osias’s Ferrari, watching the familiar landscape of Beverly Hills blur past the tinted windows as they drove toward their first public appearance since that night.
Her hands rested in her lap, her fingers intertwined to keep them from trembling, though whether from residual trauma or simple nerves, she couldn’t say.
The past week had been a cocoon of healing wrapped in the warmth of their mansion and the protective embrace of their pride.
Lissa had brought homemade soup and terrible romantic comedies.
Juno had quietly handled security details without making her feel fragile.
Daya had moved into the guest room for three days, refusing to leave until Celina stopped flinching at unexpected sounds.
“You endured thirty years of emotional abuse and manipulation,” Osias had told her during one of their late-night conversations, his voice gentle.
“It will take time to process everything and heal from what Rennick did to you. But you’re surrounded by people who love you unconditionally now. You’re safe to grieve fully.”
And she had grieved. For the man she’d thought Rennick was.
For the childhood that had been managed rather than lived.
For the decades of decisions that had never truly been hers.
Osias and the pride had held space for all of it, accepting her tears and rage and confusion with the same steady warmth they’d shown her from the beginning.
These people are my family, she realized, watching Osias’s profile as he navigated traffic with characteristic calm. My real family.
“The press coverage has been manageable,” she said aloud, partly to distract herself from the approaching event and partly because she was genuinely proud of how they’d controlled the narrative. “No one suspects anything beyond a manager having a breakdown after being fired.”
Hollywood had been buzzing with speculation about Rennick Hale’s mysterious disappearance and the strange lion sightings near the Hollywood sign, but Celina had shaped that story with the same precision she brought to her performances.
A distraught manager. Exotic animals from a film shoot.
Nothing that threatened their pride’s centuries-old secrecy.
“Juno handled the cleanup perfectly. The pride has been protecting itself this way for generations,” Osias replied, his hand finding hers across the center console. “You’re part of something larger now.”
She was the Alpha’s mate, which meant she had a duty to protect their family at any cost. The weight of that responsibility didn’t frighten her anymore. If anything, it grounded her. And after facing Rennick’s twisted obsession, no challenge seemed insurmountable.
“I’m a bit nervous to walk into a room full of entertainment journalists again and discuss my Best Picture nomination like nothing happened,” she admitted, squeezing his fingers.
Osias’s thumb traced circles against her hand—a gesture that had become as essential as breathing. Through their completed mate bond, she felt his steady confidence flowing into her, mixing with her own growing strength until the nervous energy transformed into anticipation.
“You’ve faced worse than entertainment reporters,” he said softly. “Besides, they’re more interested in our relationship than anything else. Half of Hollywood is convinced we’re a publicity stunt while the other half thinks it’s the greatest love story of the decade.”
“Well, half are right,” Celina said, surprised by her own laugh.
The Beverly Hills Hotel appeared ahead, its pink facade gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.
Paparazzi were already positioned along the entrance, their cameras ready to capture every moment of the power couple’s arrival.
Celina’s stomach tightened reflexively—a response trained into her over decades of public scrutiny.
But then Osias’s love poured through their bond, steady and unwavering, and she remembered who she was now.
Not the possession Rennick had tried to keep in a gilded cage.
She was Celina Bates—actress, producer, mate, pride member, and completely herself.
“Ready?” Osias asked as the valet approached their car.
Celina straightened her shoulders. “Let’s go remind Hollywood why they nominated us in the first place.”
The banquet room was elegant in that understated way that screamed expensive—crystal chandeliers casting warm light over round tables draped in cream linen, each setting carefully arranged with the kind of attention to detail that made A-list events feel effortless.
Entertainment journalists mingled throughout the space, their conversations creating a low hum of professional networking disguised as casual socializing.
Osias’s hand settled on her back as they entered, his presence both protective and supportive.
“Miss Bates! Mr. Fellan!” A photographer from Variety approached with an enthusiasm that meant they’d be the lead story tomorrow. “Could we get a quick shot?”
Celina smiled—not the practiced expression she’d perfected over three decades, but something genuine and warm. “Of course.”
As the camera flashed, she felt Osias’s pride radiating through their bond. Not pride in her fame or her nominations, but pride in the woman she’d become. The woman who could stand in a room full of press and feel excited rather than trapped.
Their assigned table was near the front, with perfect sight lines to the small stage where nominees would be called up for brief interviews throughout the lunch. Osias pulled out her chair with an old-fashioned courtesy that made her heart flutter even after weeks of such gestures.
“The press seems friendlier today than usual,” she murmured as he settled beside her, his thigh pressing against hers in a contact that felt both innocent and intimate.
“They love a good love story,” he replied, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Especially when it involves two of their favorite targets actually being happy.”
A server appeared with champagne and appetizers, the kind of perfectly arranged small plates that looked more like art than food. Celina realized she was actually hungry—another sign of how much she’d healed over the past week.
“Celina Bates?” A familiar voice made her look up to find Devon Shaw from Entertainment Weekly approaching with a warm smile.
She’d been interviewed by him before, back when Rennick had controlled every word she spoke.
“Mind if I join you for a few minutes? Nothing too formal—just a casual chat about A Walk Toward Forever and how life has been treating you.”
“Please, sit.” Celina gestured to the empty chair beside her, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face.
Devon had always been one of the more respectful journalists, never pushing for gossip or trying to create controversy where none existed.
Osias’s hand found her thigh under the table, his touch grounding and reassuring.
Through the bond, she felt his steady support—not trying to control the conversation or protect her from difficult questions, but simply being present if she needed him.
This is what protection feels like.
“So,” Devon said, settling into his chair with a relaxed posture. “Let’s start with the obvious question everyone wants to know. How does it feel to have A Walk Toward Forever nominated for Best Picture? This is Bates Films’ first major recognition, isn’t it?”
Celina felt her entire face light up—an expression of pure joy that no amount of media training could have manufactured.
“It feels incredible. Honestly, I’m still processing it.
When I started Bates Films two years ago, it was about honoring my mother’s memory and creating space for authentic storytelling.
To have the Academy recognize that vision is everything.
” She shook her head, momentarily speechless.
“The film deals with some pretty heavy themes—grief, second chances, finding family in unexpected places,” Devon continued, his pen moving across his notepad. “Was that intentional, or did those elements emerge naturally during production?”
“Everything we do at Bates Films is intentional,” Celina replied, her voice carrying the confidence that had grown stronger with each passing day. “We don’t make films to fill market niches or chase trends. We make films about the human experience in all its messy, complicated, beautiful reality.”
She felt Osias’s pride spike through their bond, his thumb tracing small circles against her leg in a gesture of pure affection.
“And what about your personal life?” Devon’s smile was knowing but not invasive. “The press has been absolutely fascinated by your relationship with Osias. Care to comment on how that’s been affecting your work?”
Celina glanced at Osias, who nodded—not giving permission but simply letting her know he supported whatever she chose to share.
“Osias has made me braver,” she said finally. “He’s created space for me to become fully myself, both as an artist and as a person. When someone loves you that completely and believes in your vision that deeply, it transforms everything you touch.”
“Including your approach to this Oscar campaign?” Devon asked. “Word is that you’re focusing more energy on the Best Picture campaign than your Best Actress nomination. That’s unusual for someone of your caliber.”