Chapter Ten

Blair stood still, one hand clutching a half-folded gown, the other frozen mid-gesture. The air in the boutique suddenly felt heavier, like someone had turned down the volume of the world just for her.

She stared at the door where the two women had just exited.

Not at both of them. Just one.

That silver-gray hair—long, shimmering like frost under sunlight. It caught the light in a way that tugged at something deep inside her mind, some shadow of memory she couldn’t quite bring into focus.

“Did you see her?” she asked, quieter now. Her voice lost the sharpness it carried earlier, replaced with something unsure.

Grayson looked over from where he stood beside the window. “Who?”

“The girl,” Blair said slowly, “with the silver hair.”

He frowned. “You mean the one with the girl you’ve been arguing with?”

Blair didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were still on the street, but the figure had long since vanished into the crowd.

“I’ve seen that hair before,” she murmured. “I just... don’t remember from where.”

Grayson shrugged. “So, someone dyes their hair. Big deal.”

“No,” Blair said, still distracted, brows pinching. “Not like that. It wasn’t dyed. That color—it looked too natural. Too real.”

There was a long pause before she added under her breath, almost like a confession to herself, “I know someone with that kind of hair.”

Grayson turned away from the window. “You’re overthinking it. Come on, you said you wanted to grab something to eat.”

Blair didn’t respond.

Not right away.

**

The restaurant looked like something out of a movie—gold-lit chandeliers casting a warm glow across polished marble floors, glass walls revealing the city skyline, and waitstaff dressed so sharply it felt like walking into a different world entirely.

Celeste hesitated at the entrance, tugging at the hem of her soft knit top. Her jeans suddenly felt too casual, like denim didn’t belong in a place where the forks had more shine than her entire apartment.

“Victoria… we can’t afford this,” she whispered, eyes wide as she took in the velvet booths and soft candlelight.

Victoria just grinned. “Correction: you can’t afford this. I have a brother who keeps an open tab here because he hates waiting in line for reservations. Tonight, we dine like the mildly spoiled.”

Celeste raised a brow. “Your brother won’t mind?”

“He owes me,” Victoria replied, already walking ahead like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Besides, it’s your turn to get spoiled.”

The hostess greeted Victoria like she was a regular and guided them to a cozy booth tucked near one of the tall windows overlooking the city.

Celeste slid into the plush seat, still slightly uncomfortable. She kept smoothing down her sleeves, adjusting the way she sat.

Victoria noticed but didn’t say anything. She just smiled, flagged down the waiter, and made a big deal out of ordering “one of everything that won’t make me cry when I check the scale tomorrow.”

By the time appetizers arrived, Celeste had relaxed a little—picking at warm bread, sipping fizzy water, even laughing when Victoria dramatically tried to pronounce something French on the menu.

Eventually, Victoria leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Okay. Time for questions.”

Celeste blinked, suspicious. “Questions?”

“Yep. Friendship questions. I realized I don’t know anything about you that isn’t based on diner banter and emergency chocolate muffin deliveries.”

Celeste chuckled. “Isn’t that how all friendships start?”

“Sure,” Victoria said, grinning. “But now I want the deep cuts. Favorite color?”

Celeste hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Pale blue. Like the sky right before it snows.”

Victoria nodded thoughtfully. “Pretty. Next—what did you want to be when you grew up?”

“A writer,” Celeste said, almost shy. “I liked stories. Still do.”

Victoria softened. “You still can be.”

A beat of quiet passed before Victoria asked, more carefully now, “What’s your last name?”

Celeste’s smile faltered.

She looked down at her hands, voice quieter. “I… don’t really share that.”

Victoria tilted her head. “Too many syllables? Too embarrassing?”

Celeste gave a small laugh, but it was hollow. “It’s just… part of a version of me I’m trying to forget.”

Victoria nodded slowly, sensing the weight behind her words. “Okay. No pressure.”

The rest of dinner passed with less digging and more laughter. They talked about favorite snacks, the worst movies they’d ever seen, and which dog breeds looked the most like old men. But even through the laughter, Celeste’s guardedness lingered like a shadow in the candlelight.

**

By the time their shared dessert arrived—a warm chocolate torte with sea salt and vanilla bean ice cream—the restaurant had started to empty. The once-busy hum of conversation faded into soft background murmurs, and the servers moved with the quiet, deliberate grace of people ready to close.

Celeste leaned back in the booth, her shoulders no longer as tense, eyes a little brighter.

Victoria pushed the plate toward her with a fork already in hand. “You’re having the first bite.”

Celeste smirked. “You literally already had the first bite.”

“I was testing for poison,” Victoria said with a dramatic shrug. “I’m nothing if not protective.”

Celeste shook her head, laughing, and took a slow bite. The warmth of the cake melted instantly on her tongue, sweet and rich in a way that quieted every restless part of her for just a second.

“Mmm. Okay, I take it back. This place is worth the intimidation.”

“Told you,” Victoria said, looking far too smug as she leaned back. “My brother may be annoying, but he has excellent taste in restaurants.”

Celeste smiled, swirling her glass of water. “Thank you. For today. I needed this more than I realized.”

Victoria softened, watching her for a moment. “You’re welcome. You deserve more days like this, you know.”

Celeste nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it.

They talked for a little while longer, about nothing and everything. Old movies they loved, food they’d always wanted to try, places they dreamed of visiting. Celeste shared a half-joking plan to live in a cabin on a snowy mountain and write novels with no one around but a dog and a kettle, and Victoria claimed she’d visit only if there was reliable Wi-Fi and wine.

By the time the waiter returned with the check, they were the last table still seated. The piano music had stopped, and the lights had dimmed to a quiet, amber glow.

Victoria slid the bill into her purse without even glancing at it.

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look at it.”

“Why would I? I already told you—my brother’s tab. Let him pay for something useful for once.”

Celeste shook her head, standing and grabbing her jacket. “He’s going to be so confused.”

“He won’t even notice,” Victoria said as they stepped out into the cool night air. “And if he does, I’ll just say I was emotionally compromised. Works every time.”

Outside, the city was quiet but still alive—the streets bathed in soft light, the distant hum of cars, the faint echo of laughter somewhere down the block. Celeste pulled her jacket tighter and walked beside her friend, their steps slow and easy.

For the first time in a long while, she felt… normal.

Not hunted. Not haunted.

Just two girls walking home from a really nice dinner.

And for tonight, that was enough.

**

The living room was a mess of comfort—blankets piled like clouds, pillows scattered across the floor, and half-empty glasses of wine resting dangerously close to the edge of a makeshift charcuterie board. The TV flickered with the soft glow of an old romantic comedy, the kind where everyone ended up dancing in the rain or kissing in the snow.

Celeste and Victoria lay side by side on the floor, both wearing thick face masks that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and honey. Their hair was tied back, their laughter light as they giggled over the lead actor’s painfully awkward attempts at flirting.

“I swear,” Victoria laughed, waving her wine glass toward the screen, “if this guy trips over one more rug, I’m writing a letter to the director.”

Celeste snorted, covering her mouth. “At least he’s trying.”

“Trying to fracture his spine maybe.”

They burst into another round of laughter before the quiet returned—soft and slow, like the kind that slips in when the movie isn’t funny anymore and the wine has settled into their bones.

Victoria turned her head toward Celeste, the glow of the TV catching in her eyes.

“I wish you could trust me enough to let me know why you moved to the city,” she said gently, her voice no longer playful. “Or why I can’t know your last name.”

Celeste didn’t move, her gaze still locked on the screen.

Victoria continued, “I’m not asking for everything. I don’t want to push you to say anything you’re not ready for. But we’ve grown close this past year. You know so much about me—my family, my brother, the dumb stuff I did in high school…”

She sighed and placed her wine glass aside. “But the truth is, I know almost nothing about you. And that sucks, Celeste. I don’t want to make you feel guilty, but it feels a little unfair sometimes.”

Silence.

Celeste slowly curled her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapping around them, the face mask cracking slightly as her expression tightened.

She let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t move here because I wanted a fresh start. Not really.”

Victoria waited.

Celeste’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I was engaged. We’d been together for years. It wasn’t perfect, but I thought he loved me.”

Her fingers dug lightly into her sleeves. “Then… one day I showed up, and he was marrying someone else. Just like that. No warning. No goodbye. No explanation. I wasn’t invited. I wasn’t even acknowledged. They acted like I never existed.”

Victoria’s eyes widened, her breath catching.

Celeste laughed, but there was no joy in it—just bitterness. “I found out the same way everyone else did. Standing in the back of a garden I wasn’t supposed to be in. Watching as he held her hand, said vows he never gave me. Kissed her while the world cheered.”

She wiped at her eyes quickly, even though the tears hadn’t fallen yet. “He didn’t even end things with me. Didn’t even say a word. Just married her like our years together meant nothing.”

Victoria reached out, laying a soft hand on Celeste’s arm.

“I didn’t know how to explain it. How do you explain that kind of betrayal without sounding like you’re still broken by it?”

Celeste finally looked at her, her voice small. “So I left. Changed my name. Disappeared. Because I didn’t want to be the ghost of a woman someone chose to forget.”

Victoria’s expression was soft and stunned, her heart aching for the girl beside her.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry he did that to you.”

Celeste gave a weak smile, curling further into herself. “Now you know something about me.”

Victoria squeezed her hand gently. “Thank you for telling me. I wish you didn’t carry it alone for so long.”

They didn’t speak much after that. The movie played on, forgotten.

The movie’s credits rolled, the light from the TV dimming until only the city’s glow peeked through the curtains.

Neither of them moved much after that. The wine sat forgotten. Their face masks had long since dried and cracked, but neither cared.

Victoria stayed beside Celeste, quiet and steady.

She didn’t pry. Didn’t ask more questions.

Just offered her presence the way only a true friend could—with warmth and patience and unspoken understanding.

Eventually, Celeste uncrossed herself from the tight knot she’d curled into and laid flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Her breath was even but shaky, like she’d just come back from somewhere deep.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know how to let someone in without falling apart.”

Victoria didn’t respond with words. Instead, she reached over and dropped a pillow onto Celeste’s stomach with a gentle fwump.

Celeste blinked, confused.

“You’re dramatic,” Victoria said, smirking as she leaned on one elbow. “But I get it. And I’m glad you finally said something. Now I don’t have to guess whether you were a secret government experiment or running from tax fraud.”

A weak laugh escaped Celeste.

The tension, just a little, loosened between them.

“Hey,” Victoria added softly. “Whatever happened… it doesn’t define you. Not here. Not with me.”

Celeste nodded slowly, eyes glassy but no longer spilling over. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Victoria said, grabbing a nearby remote, “do we cry-watch sad documentaries about emotionally repressed painters? Or do we binge trashy dating shows where everyone falls in love after two minutes?”

Celeste let out a real laugh this time. “Definitely the trashy dating show.”

“Excellent choice. Healing starts with watching other people make worse life choices than you.”

They cozied deeper into their mountain of blankets, side by side again, like nothing had changed—but something had. Something important.

And as the screen lit up again and the first overly dramatic reality show intro blared across the room, Celeste felt the smallest, quietest flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safety.

Not because everything was okay.

But because—for once—she didn’t have to pretend it was.