<b>Chapter </b><b>169 </b>
-CELINE-
<b>44</b>%
I stood at the end of Maple Street, staring at the small two–story house with its peeling blue paint and overgrown front yard.
Four years.
It had been four years since I hadst stood on this sidewalk, neen years old with a duffel bag in my hand and my mother’s cruel words ringing in my ears.
“Don’te back here with that bastard child. You’ve brought enough shame to this family.”
The taxi had already pulled away, leaving me alone with my memories and the sick feeling in my stomach that told me this was a mistake.
But Margaret’s words wouldn’t stop echoing in my head.
‘You’re not her biological daughter. You’re just the bastard child from some affair your father had.
I needed to know the truth. Even if it destroyed me.
The front gate still squeaked when I pushed it open.
The sound transported me back to childhood–racing home from school to tell my father about my day, back when I still believed he might protect me from my mother’s sharp tongue.
Before I reached the front door, it swung open.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
My mother stood in the doorway<i>, </i>older and grayer than I remembered, but her expression was exactly the same.
Cold.
Disgusted.
Like I was something unpleasant she had found on the bottom of her shoe.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Don’t you ‘Mom‘ me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you never toe back here.”
“I heard about Dad.” The words came out smaller than I’d intended. “Mrs. Andy told me he… that he passedst two months.”
Something shed across her face–guilt, maybe, or just irritation that I had found out.
“He’s dead. What do you want, a medal?”
I felt the harshness of it hit me like a p. “I wanted to pay my respects. He was my father.”
“Was he?” Sheughed, sharp and bitter. “Funny how you’re so sure about that.”
My blood turned to ice. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you don’t know?” Her smile was vicious. “Well, this is rich. Margaret said she might have mentioned something, but I wasn’t <b>sure </b><b>if </b>she
had actually gone through with it.
“Margard told you <b>the </b>saw the
“Of course she did. We may not get along, but family is family.” She stepped aside, gesturing for me toe in.
“Come on then. If you’re here for the truth, you might as well hear all of it.”
The living room looked exactly the same–same faded floral couch, same family photos on the mantel that somehow never included me, same smell of cigarettes and disappointment.
“Sit down,” my mothermanded, settling into her recliner like a queen holding court.
“I would rather stand.”
“Suit yourself.” She reached for a cigarette from the pack on the side table. “So Margaret told you about your father’s little indiscretion, did she?”
“She said… she said I wasn’t your biological daughter.”
My mother lit her cigarette, taking a long drag before answering. “Margaret always was a bbermouth. But yes, she’s right. You’re not mine.”
The words struck me hard, even though I had been preparing for them since yesterday.
“Who…” I swallowed hard. “Who was she?”
“A secretary at his workce. Cheap little thing with brown hair and big ideas.” She puffed out smoke in my direction. “Got herself knocked up and thought she had hit the jackpot. I thought Jackson would leave me for her.”
“What happened to her?”
“Car ident when you were two. Very convenient timing, if you ask me.”
The simple way she said it made my stomach turn. “You’re talking about my mother.”
“I’m your mother<i>,</i><i>” </i>she snapped. “I’m the one who fed you, clothed you, put a roof over your head when Thomas brought you home like
some stray cat.”
“And made sure I knew I wasn’t wanted every single day.”
“Because you weren’t!” The words exploded out of her.
“You were a constant reminder of my husband’s betrayal. Every time I looked at you, I saw her. That woman who tried to steal my life.”
I felt something crack inside my chest. Twenty years of wondering why I was never good enough, why Jesse was the golden child, and why nothing I did could earn my mother’s love.
Now I knew. I had never had a chance.
“Where’s Jesse?” I asked, my voice barely steady.
“At work. She’s a manager now<i>, </i><i>you </i>know. Has her life together, unlike some people.”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, the front door mmed open and Jesse walked in, her designer purse over her shoulder and her phone pressed to her ear.
15:10 Sat, <b>9 </b><b>Aug </b>
“Mom, I left my…” She stopped mid–sentence when she saw me. “What the fuck is this crazy bitch doing here?”
“Language, Jesse,” my mother said mildly.
<b>44</b><b>% </b>
“No, seriously.” Jesse ended her call and stared at me with undisguised disgust. “Why is she here? I thought we agreed we were done with her pathetic sob story.”
“She heard about your father and thought she’de pay her respects.”
“To a man who wasn’t even her real father?” Jesseughed. “That’s rich. What’s next, Celine? Going to cry about how hard your life has been? How mean we were to poor little you?”
I looked between them….these two women who had shaped my childhood with their cruelty and rejection….and felt something shift inside <ol><li>me. </li></ol>
“You’re right,” I said quietly.
They both blinked, clearly not expecting agreement.
“You’re absolutely right, Jesse. Dad wasn’t my biological father. And Mom….” I looked at the woman who had raised me with such obvious resentment, “… you’re not my biological mother either.”
“Damn right,” my mother muttered.
“But you know what?” My voice grew stronger. “I’m d.”
Jesse’s mouth fell open.
“I’m d I’m not really part of this family. I’m d I don’t share your blood or your values or your ability for cruelty.” I turned toward the
door.
“I spent twenty years wondering what was wrong with me, why I could never be good enough for you. Turns out there was never anything wrong with me. The problem was you.”
“Now you listen here…..” my mother started.
“No.” I spun back around. “You listen. I came here looking for answers, and I got them. But I also got something else. Closure.”
I pulled out my wallet and extracted all the cash I had–maybe three hundred dors.
“This is for Dad’s funeral expenses. Consider it my final gift to this family.” I dropped the money on the coffee table. “Don’t contact me again. Don’t contact your son. We’re done.”
“Your bastard son, you mean,” Jesse sneered. “What kind of mother doesn’t even know who the father is?”
“A better mother than either of you would ever be,” I said calmly. “Caesar has more love and kindness in his three–year–old heart than both of
youbined.”
I walked to the door, my hand on the knob, when my mother’s voice stopped me.
“You think you’re so much better than us now that you’ve got that rich man paying for everything? Think you’ve won some kind of prize?”
I turned back onest time.”
I don’t think I’m better than you. I know I am. <b>And </b>it has nothing to do with Hunter’s money and everything to do with the fact that I learned how to love despite growing up in this house.”
???? <b>? </b>
-HUNTER-
The note was short and written in Celine’s careful handwriting: ‘Gone to run errands. Backter. -C‘
But her phone was going straight to voicemail, and something about the way she’d been acting since yesterday had every instinct possessed screaming danger.
I called Derek.
“I need you to track Celine’s location,“I began without any introduction.
“Good morning to you too, Hunter. Any particr reason you’re stalking your pregnant girlfriend?”
“She’s been acting strange since her meeting with Margaret Torres yesterday. She left this morning without telling me where she was going, and her phone is off.”
Derek’s tone sobered. “Give me ten minutes.”
Those were the longest ten minutes of my life.
I paced the length of the penthouse, imagining every possible scenario, each one worse than thest.
My phone rang.
“She’s in Queens,” Derek said. “Residential address. I’m sending you the location now.”
I was already grabbing my keys. “Whose address?<b>” </b>
“ording to public records, it belongs to Patricia Brown. Age sixty–two.”
My blood turned to ice. Patricia Brown. Celine’s mother.
“Fuck.”
“Hunter? What’s going on?”
But I was already out the door, my phone pressed to my ear as I waited for the elevator.
“Derek, I need you to do something else for me. I need you to investigate Margaret Torres’s ims about Celine’s parentage. Find out if Jackson Brown had an affair, if there’s any truth to what she told Celine.”
“How deep do you want me to dig?”
“As deep as it takes. I need facts, not rumors.”
The elevator seemed to take forever. When I finally reached the parking garage, I was practically running.
“And Derek? If Margaret Torres is lying about this, I want to know why. I want to know what she gains from destroying Celine’s sense of identity.”
“Consider it done.”
I ended the call and focused on driving, pushing my car as fast as I dared through the city traffic. Celine was walking into an emotional minefield, and she was doing it alone.
The GPS led me to a neighborhood I had never been to before–narrow streets lined with small houses, working–ss families<b>, </b>the kind of <fn61ac> ??? ????? ???????s ??? ?????s??? ?? find·novel</fn61ac>
<b>4/6 </b>
gara whate pespile minitati mal was tweinken
ane celine tanding on the sidewalk in from biler, hindre dating was silent baare
puted up to the curb and rolled down the window. <i>“</i>Gen*
She turned, surprise shing cross her tear streaked face. Home? how did your*.
*Get in, Celine”
She climbed into the passenger seat without argument, and I immediately noticed the way she was holding herself like someone who had faken a beating
“Are you angry with me?” she asked quietly.
“yes” i pulled away from the curb, putting distance between us and that house. “But not for the reason you think.
“I had to know the truth.”
“I understand that. I’m angry because you went alone. I’m angry because you turned off your phone. I’m angry because you didn’t trust me enough to be there for you.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice so broken it made my chest ache:
“She told me everything. About my real mother. About why they never loved me.” She took <b>a </b>shuddering breath. “Margaret was telling the
truth. I’m not really a Brown.”
I pulled over at the first safe spot I could find and turned to face her. “Tell me everything.”
So she did. She told me about the affair, about her biological mother’s death, about twenty years of being treated like an unwanted reminder
of betrayal.
She told me about Jesse’s cruelty and her mother’s final confirmation that she’d never been wanted.
And with every word, my fury at the Brown family grew.
“They don’t deserve you,” I said when she finished. “They never did.”
“I know that now.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m done with them. For good this time.”
“Good.” I reached over and took her hand. “Because you have a family now. A real family. Me, Caesar, Caroline–people who love you for exactly who you are.”
“Even if I’m not who I thought I was?”
“Especially then.” I lifted her hand to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm.
“Your worth isn’t determined by the people who gave you life, Celine. It’s determined by the life you’ve built, the love you give, the person you choose to be.”
She started crying again, but these tears felt different. Cleaner somehow.
My phone buzzed with a text from Derek; ‘Found something interesting about the Brown family finances. Margaret Torres has been ckmailing Patricia Brown for years. This might not be about money–it might be about revenge.”
I looked at Celine, who was finally starting to look like herself again, and made a decision.