I’ve been summoned.
1019 Words
Celeste’s apartment smelled faintly of sage and cinnamon, like comfort in incense form. The lights were dim, casting soft amber shadows on the spines of half-read books and the curves of mismatched furniture. A throw blanket was carelessly draped over the arm of the couch, and a record hummed low in the background — Nina Simone, probably. It was Celeste’s kind of evening.
Isadora sat curled at the far end of the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, a mug of chamomile in her hand she hadn’t sipped from. Her expression was unreadable, but her body told another story: shoulders stiff, jaw set, the toe of her shoe bouncing restlessly against the floor.
Celeste watched her from the kitchen island, arms crossed and eyes patient. “You gonna give me some details or just sit there vibrating like a wind-up doll?”
Isadora blinked slowly. “It’s not that simple.”
“You were trapped in an elevator with a man you hate, after a blackout. And you’re here now, in my apartment, looking like you saw a ghost in there. I’d say it’s simple enough.”
Isadora finally took a sip. It was awful. The warmth of the tea didn’t do much. Celeste wasn’t exactly famous for her tea preparations. But she definitely has a nac for collecting tea. “I had a panic attack.”
Celeste’s features softened as she moved to sit beside her. “s**t. Are you okay now?”
“Obviously.” She said it too fast. Too sharp. Then quieter: “I haven’t had one like that in years.”
Celeste asked her,“Was it because of the closed elevator and you were reminded-”
“Yes”
“Oh”
A silence stretched between them.
Celeste let it hang only a moment before gently asking, “And Sebastian?”
Isadora’s gaze snapped to hers. “What about him?”
“Well, considering you didn’t keel over, I assume he didn’t leave you there to rot.”
Isadora looked away. “He... helped.”
“Oh?!.... Um..”
“It was just convenient for him. The whole collaboration depends on my functioning, so—”
“Isadora.”
She hated how calm Celeste sounded.
“He walked me through grounding techniques. He sat with me until it passed. He didn’t try to... fix me.” Her voice grew quieter, each word delivered like it was being dragged over barbed wire.
Celeste tilted her head, expression unreadable. “So he saw you at your worst and didn’t flinch?”
“Like I said he handled it. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Celeste raised a brow. “Doesn’t mean anything, or you don’t want it to mean anything?”
Isadora snapped, “Don’t make him out to be a hero.”
Celeste smiled a little, not mocking — just wistful. “I’m not. I’m just saying maybe the guy who stayed with you in a dark elevator while you were shaking and vulnerable isn’t the villain you’ve painted him to be.”
Isadora set the mug down with more force than necessary. “You don’t know him. You didn’t grow up hearing his father’s name in every backroom curse my family ever spat. This—” she gestured vaguely, angrily “—this is politics. Optics. He knows how to play nice when it suits him.”
Celeste’s voice was quiet now. “Or maybe you’re scared because he didn’t act like you expected.”
That hung in the air.
“I’m not scared of him,” Isadora whispered, and it sounded more like a lie to herself than to Celeste.
Celeste didn’t push further. She stood and walked to the kitchen, pulling open a drawer for chocolate and tossing a bar toward her friend. “Fine. Let’s call him a manipulative bastard who happens to know how to help during a panic attack. But you’re staying here tonight. You need sleep. And sugar.”
Isadora caught the bar midair without smiling. “I’m going to make some more tea.”
“No,” Celeste called from behind the fridge door. “You’re going to sit your emotionally constipated ass down and watch terrible reality TV with me until your brain shuts up.”
Isadora sighed and leaned back, the smallest hint of a smirk ghosting her lips.
The conversation was over — for now.
But something fragile had cracked open, even if neither of them dared look too closely at it yet.
Just as the opening credits of the third reality show in a row began to roll — this one featuring rich twenty-somethings fighting over an island inheritance — Isadora’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again. The same caller. Her stomach clenched.
Celeste glanced over. “You gonna get that?”
Isadora leaned forward reluctantly and picked up the phone. The screen flashed “Papa Carrington” in bold letters.
She stared at it. Then answered.
“Hello, dad. What happened?” she asked, her tone already weary.
Her father’s voice was cool and composed, as always. “We need to talk. In person. Now.”
“It’s almost midnight. Are you okay?”
“Yes, of course. I know it is midnight, but I wasn’t aware time dictated importance,” he said. “Come to the house.”
The line went dead.
Celeste had muted the TV, watching her closely. “What now?”
Isadora stood slowly, smoothing down her clothes with one hand. Her jaw had tightened again, the soft vulnerability buried under layers of armor once more.
“I’ve been summoned.”
“You want me to come with?”
Isadora shook her head. “No. Thanks for the tea. And the... everything.”
She grabbed her coat and bag, paused briefly at the door, then added over her shoulder, “Save the chocolate for me.”
Celeste gave her a small, steady smile. “Always.”
Isadora stepped into the night.
The warmth of the apartment faded behind her, and the cold gleam of legacy and expectation waited ahead.
- Writer
