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The second I slipped the late-stage stomach cancer diagnosis into my purse, Gideon Pryce’s call lit up my phone. Celeste Beckett hadn’t even managed to piece her emotions back together. She could only lower her voice and answer, “Hello?” Her husband didn’t notice a thing. If anything, his tone was sharper than usual. “You knew we were throwing Rosalind a birthday party at home today. Where the hell did you disappear to?” “You let people point fingers at her and whisper. Did you do that on purpose, or are you just that immature?” “Get back here and apologize to her. Right now.” Rosalind—her so-called “sister” with no blood relation—was only two hours younger than her. And yet the entire family treated Rosalind like their flawless daughter. Of course, that perfection required Celeste to stand right beside her as the foil. When Celeste played the difficult one, it made her sister look even more endearing. Everyone in that house loved the script. But this time, Celeste didn’t feel like playing along. “Do you even know where I am?” Celeste still clung to one thin thread of hope. There was a brief silence on the other end. Then a cold laugh. “Whenever you want to make things hard for Rosalind, you always have an excuse ready. Celeste, we’re the ones who hurt her. If you had even a shred of decency, you’d feel guilty toward her. Instead, you keep laying traps to make her look bad.” The sadness inside Celeste didn’t just ache—it shattered, crushed by him in a way that was entirely different. What was she even holding out for? She must have been sick in the head to look for comfort from him. Celeste forced herself to steady her breathing, then shifted into a sharp, mocking tone. “Gideon, if you care about her that much, why didn’t you just marry her in the first place? I gave you the chance.” His voice dropped, low and taut with restrained anger. “Don’t change the subject. If you’re not back here in thirty minutes, I’ll send someone to ‘escort’ you back.” He stres
