CHAPTER 4: Oh Celine!

A few days had passed since the séance. Since the candles danced and the air grew cold. Since Celine disappeared into the unknown, whispering promises of return. There had been no word from Evelyn. No visions. Just silence.

Ònààra tried not to think too much of it. Maybe Evelyn was caught up in her jewelry projects again. Maybe she needed space. Friends got busy. It happened. Still, something about her silence felt... off.

Then, late last night, a text came in.

Lunch tomorrow? My treat. Something fancy.

Ònààra didn’t hesitate. She replied yes.

Now, she sat alone at a high-end restaurant Evelyn had picked. An unusual choice for someone who normally avoided flash. Ònààra glanced at the time. Fifteen minutes late.

She sighed and reached for her glass of water just as the doors swung open.

A woman walked in.

She wore a red sequin dress that shimmered under the soft golden lights. It hugged her perfectly, short and daring with a deep neckline. Her curves moved with each confident step. Her hair was black and sleek, straightened to perfection, flowing down her back like silk.

Heads turned. People stared. She didn’t seem to notice.

She walked toward Ònààra’s table, a quiet smirk tugging at her lips.

“Hello, Ona,” she said smoothly, sliding into the seat across from her as if she owned the room.

Ònààra raised a brow. “Loving the new Celine-inspired look. Should I start calling you Celine now?” Her tone was light, but her eyes were steady. This wasn’t Evelyn anymore. Not completely.

The woman smiled. It was slow. Knowing.

“This body belongs to Evelyn,” she said, her voice calm. “But today, I needed her to look like me.”

She ran a hand along her dress, letting the shimmer do the talking.

“Darren is here.”

She paused, her eyes locking onto Ònààra’s.

Ònààra said nothing. She didn’t have to.

“Oh,” Celine continued, glancing toward the entrance, “someone’s joining us too. Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

She stood, tossed Ònààra a wink, and walked off, her perfume trailing behind her like a soft warning.

At the back of the restaurant, Darren sat in a quiet booth, his attention halfway on the wine in his hand and halfway on the man talking beside him. Something about figures and contracts. He had already tuned it out.

Then he saw her.

He didn’t catch her face at first. Just the dress. Red. Flashing under the lights. It clung to her like a second skin. The walk was smooth. Confident. Familiar.

He froze.

It couldn’t be.

Her scent drifted past him. Sweet, floral, with a trace of something warm beneath. His heart skipped.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, already on his feet. He moved through the tables, keeping his eyes on her.

She walked a few steps ahead. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough for him to follow.

He reached her. Tapped her shoulder gently.

“Celine?”

She turned.

It was her. But not.

Her face was familiar, but there were small changes. Softer in places. Her smile was faint, almost amused.

“I’m so sorry,” Darren said, stepping back. “You looked like someone I used to know.”

“Do I?” she asked, her voice smooth and low with a hint of teasing.

She leaned in, just slightly. Close enough for her scent to wrap around him again.

Darren stood speechless.

The woman turned and walked away, heading toward the lounge.

He remained frozen, caught between memory and disbelief.

In a mirror hanging near the hallway, Celine, still wrapped in Evelyn’s skin, watched him. His eyes were still glued to where she’d stood.

Her lips curved into a small smile.

Everything was unfolding just as she planned.

“Hey, hun.”

A woman’s voice floated through the room, soft but playful. Darren stirred, his temples pounding. His head felt like it had been split open by a hammer. The memories were foggy. He barely remembered how he got home.

“Mm... morning,” he mumbled, shifting on the sofa. He rubbed his eyes, but it was no use. Celine crept back into his thoughts uninvited. That woman from the restaurant still haunted him—her scent, her walk, the way she turned around. His chest tightened.

Celine's memorial had been just a few days ago. He didn’t attend. His mother had been furious.Now the guilt was crawling under his skin like worms.

“A fresh story for the tabloids,” he muttered bitterly, sitting up straighter and pressing his palm to his forehead.

“It’s been a year,” he groaned, “and I still haven’t gained full control of her assets. These old goats won’t sign a thing. Even in death, she owns their loyalty.”

His jaw clenched. He cursed under his breath.

“Would you like some coffee?” the same voice called again, cheerful and soft.

Darren froze. That voice didn’t sound like anyone he remembered.

He turned slowly.

In the doorway stood a woman wearing nothing but his oversized shirt and a lazy grin. Her bare legs stretched from beneath the hem, long and smooth. Her hair was messy but purposeful, and the light in her eyes was playful.

“Who are you?” Darren asked, blinking, confusion washing over his face.

“The only human who noticed how wasted you were last night,” she replied with a light laugh, walking toward him with slow, swaying steps. The shirt barely covered her thighs. Darren’s eyes followed her without meaning to.

“Do you remember this?” she asked in a low, teasing tone. She slid into his lap like she had done it a thousand times, straddling him. She leaned in and kissed him, soft at first, testing. His lips parted, responding instinctively. His hands found her waist, and then her hips.

She deepened the kiss, letting it linger before pulling back.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“I do,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “Claire.”

His hands moved lower, fingers digging into her curves. He groaned. For a brief, heated moment, he forgot everything. The haunting memory of Celine. The pressure at work. His mother’s voice in his ear. All of it disappeared beneath the weight of Claire’s body and the heat between them.

Then the door lock beeped.

It was a sharp, electronic sound. Someone was entering.

A moment later, the front door flew open. Fast footsteps echoed through the hallway like a storm was brewing.

“Darren!” A voice shrieked, slicing through the air like glass.

He turned, heart sinking.

Natalie.

Her blonde hair bounced with every step as she stormed in, face twisted with rage. Her eyes blazed as she took in the scene—Claire in his lap, shirt half-open, Darren’s lips still red from the kiss.

“Who is she?”

The question came fast.

“Who is she?” Both women said it, voices overlapping like they rehearsed it.

Darren exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face like it might erase what just happened.

“Natalie, meet Claire. Claire, Natalie. My sister.”

Natalie’s expression shifted. Her eyes narrowed, lips curled into a bitter smirk that didn’t hide her disgust.

“Hello, Natalie,” Claire said sweetly. She gave a soft giggle that sounded a little too amused for the moment. Then she rose from Darren’s lap, moving toward the hallway with a calm grace that irritated Natalie even more.

Tension filled the room like smoke. Natalie began to pace, fists clenched at her sides. Claire paused just outside the room as voices rose behind her.

Glass shattered.

She rushed back inside, startled.

“What happened? Is anyone hurt?” she asked, eyes jumping from Darren to Natalie.

“You happened,” Natalie spat, her voice sharp. “Harlot.”

“Stop it, Natalie,” Darren barked. His voice rose. “Enough with the drama.”

Claire flushed. Darren has stood up for her.

“That’s the door,” Darren said quietly, voice flat. “You should leave.”

Natalie turned, fury written in every line of her face. As she walked past Claire, she hissed, “You won’t like what’s coming next.”

Then she was gone. The door slammed so hard the walls shook.

“And you too,” Darren said, eyes low, voice empty.

Claire blinked. She stared at him, lips parted. But she didn’t argue. She walked away without a word, packed up her belongings in silence, and let herself out.

The door clicked shut.

Darren sank onto the couch. He buried his face in his hands.

“What the hell is my life?” he whispered.