CHAPTER 3

Celeste’s POV

I struggled to suppress the scream in my throat, silently praying for someone to come and help me.

That was all I could do. 

It was not just me I had to think about. Those kids in the orphanage… and Auntie, who’d always been like a mother to me…

If I fought back, Genevieve would make good on her threats.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the panic clawing at my chest. I couldn’t let them suffer because of me.

Luckily, no one entered my room again until sleep finally claimed me.

Soon, morning came. The door suddenly creaked open, making me sit up in bed as a nurse walked in.

She was definitely not the kind who greeted others with warmth.

Her uniform was crisp, but her face was hard and expressionless. The dead eyes stared at me, void of empathy.

“Time for your medicine.”

I immediately recoiled. “I don’t need it. I’m not sick,” my voice hoarse.

But the nurse didn’t blink. She simply walked forward, grabbed my jaw in a bruising grip, and forced my mouth open.

“Wait—stop!” My words were muffled as she shoved the pills inside.

I gagged, instinctively jerking back, but she was ready for that. Her fingers clamped around my throat, pressing just hard enough to stop me from spitting the pills out. 

Her movements were so practiced, as if she had done this hundreds of times.

My lungs tightened. My stomach lurched. I couldn’t breathe—

My vision swam as the bitter taste spread across my tongue. I gasped when she finally let go, my body heaving for air. 

I wanted to make a run for it, to get out the door and escape this nightmare. But she was blocking the way. One look at her, and I knew that she could overpower me with ease. 

“Be obedient,” she warned. 

Then she leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. “Your husband said you’re mentally unstable. Crazy. A real danger to yourself and to other people.”

My body trembled, still reeling from the pain in my lungs. But it couldn’t compare with the blow that came from my husband.

"That’s why you’re here," she mocked. "And he made it clear—we're not to let you go easily."

Every word sank in, squeezing my heart tightly. 

I can’t believe Damien’s really doing this to me. He’s the cruel one! 

Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I sucked in a slow and shaky breath, swallowing the fury rising in my chest.

He’s willing to destroy me to avenge Genevieve, to save his family’s reputation, to protect his company… But I didn’t even do anything!

The routine was the same every day.

Wake up. Take the pills. Stay quiet.

A suffocating haze settled over me after each dose. My thoughts slowed and my limbs felt heavy. I drifted through the hours in a daze, unable to focus, unable to fight.

Days passed in a mindless fog. But one day, a hunched old man came to my room and spoke to me. It was the janitor, sent in to mop the floor when I spilled my drink.

“They’re poisoning you,” he murmured under his breath, not looking up. “That medicine—it’s got hallucinogens.”

I snapped to attention, my sluggish brain trying to grasp his words. “What? Are you sure?”

“They give patients heavy doses to keep them quiet,” he said, still mopping. “Makes them easier to control.”

I felt dread rising within me. He left, though, before I could ask any questions, locking me inside again.

I peered through the foggy window of my door, banging and demanding to be let out. To my surprise, I saw a group of patients shuffling aimlessly down the hall, their eyes vacant and their expressions hollow. 

Like living corpses. 

I felt sick.. This is illegal! They can’t do this to us! 

Damien had imprisoned me here to become a lifeless shell! How could he?! I felt the hatred coiling inside me, growing stronger with each passing moment.

I needed to stay alert. I had to stay me. But how?

The nurse never took her eyes off me. I couldn’t fake taking the pills. 

I looked around in panic. Eventually, my eyes landed on the broken porcelain cup that the janitor had cleaned up. The one I’d accidentally dropped earlier. 

I moved swiftly, my fingers closing around a piece. The sharp edge bit into my skin, but I didn’t let go. 

The pain will keep me from succumbing to nothingness. 

I did it again and again in the following days. Every cut, every sting, was a reminder. I’m not going to turn into a hollow shell like the others. 

More importantly, the pain always reminded me that Damien, my own husband, did this. With each passing day in this hellhole, my hatred for him only grew darker, deeper. It was unstoppable.

I looked down at my hands, now they were covered in scars. No one could believe that I used to be a brilliant designer, a girl with ambition and dreams of my own. But I’d given it all up, just for Damien. 

Instead, I was trampled on. Treated like garbage.

I sighed, leaning against the cold wall. Pain is still better than numbness. Pain reminded me that I was still here fighting.

“I’ll be okay,” I tried to assure myself. I still have Auntie Eleanor. She’ll find a way to get me out of here. 

A rustling sound broke the silence.

"Are you okay?"

My eyes flew open. I turned sharply toward the small window. The old janitor was back. His grizzled face was lined with concern.

I steadied my voice. "I’m fine." That was a lie. "I’m just worried about Auntie. She must be trying to help me."

The janitor frowned. "Where are your parents?"

"I don’t have any. I’ve been an orphan since I was little."

I wanted to talk about anything. It kept my mind from sinking into the fog.

"But I have a birthmark," I continued. "Auntie’s been using it to help me find my parents. She said there’s news about them."

I exhaled, forcing down the lump in my throat. So far, that birthmark had brought me nothing but misery.

And yet, it was the only proof of who I really was.

Just then, a sudden burst of static filled the hallway, making me snap my head up. The TV in the hallway was on. 

I tiptoed, straining to see the screen. Eventually, the flickering images became clearer. 

Breaking news. 

The breath left my lungs as I watched and listened. 

I would recognize that building any time, even though now, it was being consumed by flames. Smoke billowed all around as the news anchor’s voice droned on. 

"The fire at Rosehill Orphanage has yet to be contained. Several children remain trapped inside as emergency responders work to control the flames. Director Eleanor Whitmore was found unconscious at the scene and has been hospitalized in critical condition. Authorities suspect arson, though the cause of the fire is still under investigation."

I stopped breathing. For a moment, everything around me ceased to exist. Then my heart began to shatter.

“No…” I whispered in fear. “This can’t be true.”