The Tuesday evening, they arrived back at their penthouse after their honeymoon, glad to be back home.
Wednesday morning, the doorbell rang around 9 a.m., delivery service handed her a plain envelope with her name typed in block capitals across the front. No sender’s name. No return address. Just a stamp from the California State Correctional Facility, a smudge of ink where someone’s thumb had pressed too hard.
Celeste found it on the marble counter in Damien’s study, half-buried under printouts and budget drafts for the next phase of their studio. For a moment, she just stared at it, the seal, the sterile official ink. A relic of a ghost that refused to stay buried.
Damien’s watch sat on top of it, heavy, deliberate, a silent question. "Do you really want to open this?"
She read it s
