Chapter 3

Celeste's POV

Smoke filled the air like fog, thick and acrid, staining the sky an ugly gray. Red lights flashed against the street, the blare of sirens finally silencing as the fire trucks pulled into place. Crowds had gathered, students and locals standing in clusters, watching the heart of our campus slowly get swallowed by flame.

The library.

Our library.

I held Eden close, my arms around her as she sobbed into my shoulder, her cries drowned out by the hiss of water from the fire hoses. Firefighters moved with sharp precision, shouting commands, dragging lines, spraying down the still-smoking entrance. But the damage was already done.

The place was gone.

Burned from the inside out.

Books, archives, community donations—destroyed.

“Why is this happening?” Eden choked out. “God, this can’t be real. Please tell me this isn’t real.”

My throat was tight. My eyes burned, not just from the smoke. “I know,” I whispered. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She cried harder, her body trembling under my arms.

That place wasn’t just a job. It was the only steady thing in our lives.

Then I heard the voice of someone familiar, shaky but kind.

“I’m so sorry, girls,” came the rough voice of Mr. Whitmore, the old man who owned the building. He wore his usual navy slacks and a brown coat over his crisp shirt, but his eyes were red and wet, and his gray hair was slicked back like he’d come rushing the moment he got the call.

He looked heartbroken.

Eden turned to him, her eyes wide. “Is there… is there anything left?”

Mr. Whitmore’s shoulders sagged. “Nothing worth salvaging,” he said softly. “I tried to get here as soon as I could. I didn’t know it’d spread that fast.”

He looked at us like we were his own daughters. He had always been that way. Kind, soft-spoken, respectful. He never made us feel small.

“I’m going to take care of my staff as best I can,” he said gently, resting a hand on my shoulder. “But I know that won’t fix this. I’m so sorry, truly.”

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper, though it felt hollow. Not because his words didn’t mean anything, but because the reality of what we’d lost was too big to grasp.

Eden’s knees buckled a little. I held her up.

“You okay to get home?” Mr. Whitmore asked, brows drawn with worry.

“Yeah,” I said, glancing down the street. “We’ll be okay.”

But I didn’t believe it.

When I got back to the apartment, the door was already cracked open. Inside, the familiar scent of cinnamon incense greeted me, our roommate’s signature choice.

And sitting on the hallway floor with toy cars lined up by his feet was Noah, his curls bouncing as he spotted me.

“Mommy!” he squealed.

All the weight in my chest loosened for a moment.

I dropped to my knees, arms open, and he ran straight into them, crashing into me with a force that nearly toppled me backward.

“Hi, baby,” I whispered, squeezing him tight. “Did you have fun today?”

“I played cars with Iris!” he said excitedly. “She let me be the blue one.”

“Oh, the fastest one,” I grinned. “Of course she did.”

“Dinner’s ready, by the way,” Iris called from the kitchen, voice casual and light, like she didn’t come from old money or once lived in a penthouse she ran away from.

I glanced up to see her stirring something in a pot, wearing ripped jeans, a faded band tee, and a silk headband like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Iris Castillo was a walking contradiction.

She was the kind of girl people stared at in awe—elegant, sarcastic, disarmingly smart. The daughter of one of the most prominent legal families in the country. And yet she lived with us. In this shabby two-bedroom apartment with pipes that leaked and walls that groaned.

Because she chose to.

She ran away her freshman year. No one really knew why, she never said, but she never went back. And she never left Noah behind, either. She babysat without complaint, helped with rent even when I told her not to, and never once judged the way we lived.

“I can’t believe you cooked,” I said, trying to smile as I slipped off my shoes. “You were on popcorn duty last week.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, “I figured you’d have a hell of a day. Eden texted.”

I swallowed hard. “It was bad.”

“Worse than we thought?”

“It’s gone.”

Iris’s lips tightened. “Shit.”

Noah tugged my hand. “Can we eat now, Mommy?”

“Yes, baby. Let’s eat.”

Later that night, when Noah was finally asleep, Iris knocked softly on my bedroom door, then stepped inside without waiting for permission. She flopped onto the edge of my bed, cross-legged, holding two mugs of tea.

“Chamomile. No judgment,” she said, handing me one.

“Bless you.”

We sipped in silence for a while. The weight of the day pressed down on both of us like a third presence in the room.

Then she finally said it.

“You know, you could tell him.”

I didn’t need to ask who she meant.

I froze, the mug halfway to my lips.

“No.”

“Celeste—”

“No,” I said again, setting the mug on the nightstand. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” she sighed. “But that was before you lost the job. Before you had a kid and a ton of bills to pay. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending you’re fine.”

“I’m not pretending I’m fine,” I snapped quietly. “I’m just… figuring it out. Like I always do.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I can’t go to him, Iris,” I whispered after a moment. “You don’t understand. His world? He’s probably forgotten my face by now. He’s got women with perfect smiles and pedigrees. I’m a single mom who barely scraped together enough pennies for everyday. That’s all I am.”

She stared at me, brows knit together like she wanted to say something else. But in the end, she just sighed.

“You’re more than that,” she said.

I looked down at my hands.

“I was able to figure it out then,” I murmured. “I’ll figure it out now.”