She wore black trousers, a white blouse, and a smile so calm it looked painted on.
“Evelyn,” she said. “You came.”
“Where is my son?”
Her smile widened. “Straight to business. Motherhood made you efficient.”
My father stepped forward. “Celine.”
Celeste’s eyes flicked to him, and for the first time, hatred burned through the mask.
“Do not call me that.”
“Where is the child?”
She turned and walked deeper into the warehouse. “Come see.”
We followed.
The inside had been transformed into something between a courtroom and a shrine. A long table stood beneath hanging lights. Files, old photographs, ledgers, and a laptop were arranged neatly on it.
And at the far end, inside a portable bassinet, lay Samuel.
Alive.
Sleeping.
A woman stood beside him with one hand near the blanket.
I lunged forward.
Celeste lifted one finger.
“Careful.”
My father grabbed my wrist. “Evelyn.”
I shook so hard my teeth clicked.
