Celeste ran without looking back. The forest swallowed her small frame under the cloak of night. Her pulse raged in her ears. Every breath burned. Her dress tore on a low branch. She stumbled but forced herself on. The bright lights of the estate faded. Only bronze moonlight guided her.
She reached a clearing and collapsed against a tree trunk. Her legs trembled. Her hands hovered at her throat, tasting the salt of tears she refused to shed. She pressed her palm to her abdomen, aching from the fall. She felt the faint stir of life she carried, her son's constant reminder.
She forced herself to stand. She wiped her cheek on her sleeve and forced her eyes to focus. She remembered an old church on the edge of town. She had never gone inside. She recalled its sturdy doors and quiet pews. She knew it stood unlocked at night. She set off again.
The path led her through dense underbrush. Thorns snagged her gown. She scraped her ankle against a root but did not stop. She reached the cemetery gate. Rusted iron bars rose above weathered stones. She slipped through a gap in the hedge and kept moving.
The church rose before her, whitewashed walls dim beneath the moon. Ivy clung to the corners. A single lantern burned by the side door. She pressed her palm to the glass. Heat radiated out. She inhaled deeply, tasting hope.
She knocked three times. Her knuckles stung. Steps sounded inside. The door opened an inch. A man's eye peered out. His gaze locked on her. She knew that face even before she saw it fully.
He opened the door. He stood tall. His suit cut a dark shape against the lantern glow. His features looked sharper. He smelled of cedar and faint smoke. He did not smile.
"Celeste Morgan." He stated her name as though he weighed it in his mouth. His voice was low but steady. She felt it vibrate her chest.
She closed her mouth against a sigh. She nodded once. "Yes."
He stepped aside. She slipped in. The door shut behind her with a soft click she felt in her bones.
The chapel smelled of beeswax and old wood. Faded murals showed saints and angels. Pews stood in neat rows. An altar glowed under flickering candles. He led her down the center aisle without speaking.
He reached the front and flicked on a switch hidden behind an angel statue. Two sconces lit the side chapel. He guided her there. He closed the heavy wooden door behind them.
She stood in silence. She pressed her back to the wall. She could hear the slow tick of a clock. She tasted the musty air. She willed her legs not to tremble.
He stood in the center of the small room. He tipped his head. He asked without question, "Why are you here, Celeste?"
She swallowed. She pressed her lips together. She stared at the floor until her vision blurred. Then she steadied herself and raised her eyes. She met his dark gaze.
She spoke in a whisper. "I needed to hide."
He did not move. Silence stretched. Then he asked, "From whom?"
Her throat tightened. She wanted to lie. She wanted to say "From everyone," but that would sound like defeat. She chose her words carefully. "From the people who ruined me."
He glanced at her wounds. Purple bruises marred her skin beneath the lace of her gown. Her cheek bore a red mark, half hidden by her hair. Her eyes were glassy with shock. She looked smaller than he remembered.
He stepped closer. He crouched so his face hovered at her level. He said in a low voice, "You should have told me."
Her breath hitched. She had planned this moment in her mind for years. She had never imagined his expression would hurt so much. She shook her head. "I had no proof."
He studied her face as though he searched for the spark of the girl he once thought he loved. He reached out but stopped short. His hand hovered in midair.
His voice grew raw. "Bianca told me you left willingly. She said, You never wanted me or our child."
Her chest seized. She pressed her palm against her heart. "She lied."
He rose slowly. He circled to face her. He folded his arms. He revealed nothing.
She forced herce to be steady. "I ran. I didn't know where else to go."
He closed his eyes. He exhaled. He admitted through clenched teeth, "I believed her."
She stepped forward. She closed the gap between them. She felt his scent—leather and earth. She remembered nights tasting this same air when fear and longing tangled in her chest.
She met his eyes. She said, "Our son…"
He stiffened. He opened his eyes. His pupils constricted as though in pain. He whispered, "Tell me."
She glanced at the floor. She summoned courage. She lifted her eyes. She declared, "He's alive. He's five."
His hand flew to his chest. He pressed his palm over his heart. He stared at her, stunned. He asked, voice barely above a breath, "Where is he?"
She swallowed hard. She glanced at the door. She drew a deep breath. She spoke in a rush. "He's safe. He's with my friend. She lives in a small house outside town. He never saw his father. He only knows me."
He rubbed his forehead. He ran a hand through his hair. He forced his jaw to unclench. He asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"
She fought tears. She looked away. She explained, "I was ashamed. I thought I would lose him. I thought you'd hate me."
He stepped closer until only inches separated them. He said softly, "I could never hate him. Or you."
She trembled. She met his gaze. She searched his eyes for truth. She heard her own heartbeat thud in her ears.
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small photograph. He extended it to her. The picture captured a boy standing by a fountain in winter. He held a small drawing. He looked at the camera with shy pride.
She recognized the ribbon of hair he wore. She recognized the tilt of his head. She whispered, "Noah."
He nodded. He said, "I found this among Bianca's things."
Her breath caught. She felt the air vanish. She stared at the photograph. She said, "She knew."
He closed his hand around it. He said, "Now I know."
She felt something shift inside her. Fear and relief warred in her chest. She asked, voice trembling, "What will you do?"
He pressed a fist against the wall. His voice broke as he answered, "Protect him. Protect you."
She dropped her gaze. She felt tears break free. She wiped them on her sleeve. She heard the scrape of wood behind her.
She spun. The door stood slightly ajar. Darkness seeped in around its frame. She realized they were not alone.
A soft voice called through the gap, "Celeste."
Her breath collapsed. She turned back to him. He froze.
The voice came again, louder: "You can't hide."
Their eyes met. His face lost color. Her heart lurched. She whispered, "Bianca."
He reached for her. He gripped her arm and pulled her back into the chapel.
The door slammed shut.
They stood in the hush of flickering candlelight. The weight of the moment pressed them together.
He held her close and whispered, "We'll face her together."
She leaned into him, voice small: "I'm scared."
He tightened his arms and said, "You don't have to hide again."
Outside, the wind moaned around the old church walls.
Inside, their shared secret sparked into flame.
And in the shadows, someone waited.