All Chapters of Reclaiming Celeste: A Contract Marriage for Revenge: Chapter 1 - Chapter 6

I take the servants' stairs because I can't bear to walk past all those people again. Past all those faces that saw me get slapped twice and did nothing. Past those faces who believe I'm the monster in this story.My cheeks are still burning. My throat is tight with rage and humiliation. Of course. The problem is always Anastasia. Infuriating fucking Anastasia.The east wing is silent when I reach it. Dark. This part of the house barely gets used, as it's just storage rooms and my bedroom, tucked away where I can't bother anyone.Where I can't ruin Vivienne's perfect life just by breathing the same air.I slam my bedroom door shut and stand there in the darkness, chest heaving, hands shaking with fury. The injustice of it all crashes over me in waves. Christopher's baby. Vivienne's triumph. Mother's slaps. The whispers. Fuck my life. Ugh.I can't stay here. I can't just sit in this room and let them win.I need water. Or air. Or something to stop me from screaming. I wrench open my d

Vincent Torres.The man Vivienne has been thirsting after for years. I've heard her gush about him at dinner parties, seen her try to engineer "accidental" meetings at charity galas. She's thoroughly obsessed with him.And he's standing right in front of me.Vincent Torres. Quiet. Dangerous. The kind of man who doesn't need to raise his voice to command a room. The kind of man who makes billion-dollar deals before breakfast and destroys competitors by lunch.What the hell is he doing breaking into my house? Drugging me? Calling me by a name that isn't mine?"Come in," he says again, stepping aside. I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me to run. But I've already come this far. And I need answers.I step inside.The loft is smaller than I expected. There's a sitting area with sleek leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and a bar in the corner with crystal decanters filled with amber liquid.It's masculine. Expensive. Like him."Sit," he says, gesturing to

The stylist Vincent sends is a whirlwind of efficiency and impeccable taste. She arrives at exactly eight AM with three assistants, racks of designer clothes, and enough makeup to open a cosmetics counter. They transform my room into a makeshift salon, and for the next several hours, I’m poked, prodded, painted, and perfected. "Mr. Torres is very specific about what he wants," the stylist, Michelle, says as she holds up a stunning red dress. "He says you need to look like you could buy and sell everyone in that room." I stare at the dress. It’s gorgeous. "Try it on," Michelle urges. I slip into it, and wow. The dress hugs every curve like it’s sewn directly onto my body. The neckline is cut perfectly to push my breasts up and out without being trashy, hitting that sweet spot between elegant and seductive. The slit runs all the way up my thigh, showing a scandalous amount of leg with every step. I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. My hair is styled in soft, glamor