Chapter 5: Things Not Meant to Be Hear
1032 Words
The penthouse at night felt like a glass coffin.
Celeste wandered barefoot across the cold marble floors, her gown exchanged for a silk slip that clung to her shoulders. The city pulsed outside the windows, headlights streaming like arteries, skyscrapers burning like bonfires. But inside, silence pressed too close.
She had tried to sleep. Tried to bury herself in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of cedar and Lucien’s cologne. But her thoughts clawed at her. Her mother’s face rose unbidden, blurred in memory, eyes sharp, lips tight with secrets. Then gone. Always gone.
Celeste wrapped her arms around herself and moved toward the library alcove. She didn’t trust silence. Silence always hid something.
And then she heard it.
A voice. Low, steady, carrying through the partially closed study door.
Lucien’s.
Her heartbeat stumbled. She crept closer, pressing against the wall.
“…No, it isn’t secured yet,” he was saying. His tone was clipped, quieter than his usual silk. “I told you before, if she finds out what happened to the mother, it will destroy the entire agreement.”
Celeste froze. The words cut straight through her skin.
The mother.
Her mother.
She leaned closer, every nerve straining. The door stood ajar just enough for sound to slip through but not enough for her to see.
“She asks questions already,” Lucien continued, his voice measured, controlled. “And if she digs further, yes, I know. Don’t lecture me about risks. I’ve kept her in the dark this long.”
Her chest tightened. Heat pricked behind her eyes. He knew. He knew something.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood, steadying her breath. If she made a sound, he would hear her. And then what? He would spin a lie, close the door, and she’d lose the only unguarded words she might ever catch from him.
A pause. The faint sound of liquid pouring into a glass.
“Yes,” Lucien said finally. “If it comes to it, I’ll handle her myself. But for now, keep watching.”
Celeste’s stomach turned. Handle her. Keep watching.
Her hands shook against the silk of her slip. She pressed herself back against the wall, forcing air into her lungs. When the call ended, silence returned, heavier than before.
She slipped down the hall, feet silent on marble, her mind a roar.
By the time Lucien emerged from the study, Celeste was in the kitchen, pouring herself water with hands that barely trembled. The cool glass steadied her, gave her something to hold instead of the storm inside.
Lucien’s footsteps were soft, deliberate. He appeared in the doorway, jacket discarded, tie loosened, looking far too at ease for a man who had just mentioned her mother like a ghost.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
Celeste sipped slowly, willing her voice to sound steady. “Too many ghosts in this place.”
His head tilted, curious. “Ghosts?”
“Memories,” she corrected, setting the glass down with precision.
He stepped into the kitchen, the dim light catching the lines of his jaw, the way his shirt clung to his frame. He moved like the space belonged to him, even though it was hers too now.
“Funny thing about ghosts,” Lucien said softly. “They only haunt those who let them.”
Celeste met his eyes. “And you? Haunted?”
His lips curved faintly. “Every day.”
The answer disarmed her more than silence would have. She swallowed hard, hiding it behind a raised brow.
The next morning, Celeste scoured the penthouse. If there was one bug, there would be more. She pulled open drawers, checked behind picture frames, even lifted the cushions on the leather couch.
And she found them.
Not one. Not two. Four.
Tiny black devices tucked into corners, under the bar counter, behind the headboard, beneath the vanity. She lined them up on the desk, a grim parade of evidence.
Lucien found her like that, standing over the bugs with arms crossed, fury written into every angle of her body.
His eyes narrowed. “Where did you...”
“Everywhere,” she cut in. Her voice was ice. “Do you have any idea how many? Do you even care?”
He stepped closer, gaze fixed on the devices. “These aren’t mine.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“Because it’s true.” His voice was sharp now, sharper than she’d ever heard it. “I don’t need toys to know what you’re hiding.”
The words landed like a slap. Celeste’s chest tightened, but she didn’t let it show. She turned, gathering the bugs in her hand and throwing them into the trash.
“Then you’d better find out whose they are,” she said coolly. “Before they hear something they shouldn’t.”
That night, silence pressed heavier than before. Celeste sat by the window, legs curled beneath her, watching headlights smear across the glass. She couldn’t stop replaying Lucien’s words from the study.
The mother.
Her mother’s face blurred in her mind, laughter she barely remembered, arguments she remembered too well. The night she vanished, the blood in the sink, the silence afterward.
Lucien knew something. Maybe everything.
The sound of ice clinking broke her thoughts. Lucien stood behind her, drink in hand, eyes reflecting the city lights.
“Spying suits you poorly,” he said quietly.
Her pulse jumped, but she kept her expression smooth. “And lying suits you too well.”
They stared at each other, a battlefield in silence.
“You’re not safe here,” he said finally. His voice carried no mockery now, only weight. “Whoever planted those bugs, whoever listens, they’re not after me. They’re after you.”
Her heart twisted, caught between fear and fury. “Why?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Because of what happened to your mother.”
The glass in her hand slipped slightly. She caught it before it shattered, her breath sharp.
When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Then tell me, Lucien. Tell me what you know.”
But he only raised his glass to his lips, drinking in silence.
- Writer
