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Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
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Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
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Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
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Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.
Chapter 1 Prologue The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero's assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don't need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting. The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. "Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?" Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family's housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham's liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. "Let's wait a little longer," Celia said softly. "Maybe the meeting will wrap up early." Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. "It's seven o'clock. Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. "More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old," the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. "Ms. Stein, who is this child?" Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. "Sorry," she said, her tone stiff. "That's a private matter. I can't comment on it." That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. "Who is the child's father? Did you get married overseas quietly?" "Now that you're back, are you planning to stay?" "There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?" As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia's hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham. He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn't care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. "Beckham..." Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he'd done it countless times before. "Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?" "Is this your child?" The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, "Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say." He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. "As for certain business marriages, they're nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about." ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family]. Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from behind her. "Clean it up," Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. "I'm skipping dinner tonight." With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham's grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning. Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. "Cory," Celia said, stopping without looking back, "starting tomorrow, don't prepare dinner for Beckham anymore." "What about you, Mrs. Lucero?" Cory asked. "I'll make sure I eat," Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn't switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein's Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him. The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein's name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn't answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. "So you finally answered?" Aiyana sounded openly smug. "Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister's back, and she even brought a kid with her. "So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?" Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "What, not talking now?" Aiyana sneered. "Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. "Now that the real one's back, a fake like you should really—" "Done?" Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, "You..." "Aiyana," Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. "Beckham's been good to you these past three years, hasn't he?" Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. "Of course. Beckham's always—" "He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten," Celia said slowly. Something in Celia's tone put Aiyana on guard at once. "What are you getting at?" she demanded. "Nothing much." Celia gave a soft laugh. "I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn't me. It's you." "What are you even talking about?" Aiyana snapped. "You think I'm talking nonsense?" Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. "Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? "Was it because of you, or because you're Laylah's sister?" Aiyana's breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. "Shut up." "For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah." "He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she's back, what place do you think you still have?" Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. "Celia Ross!" Aiyana shrieked. "Like you're any better? You're nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—" "At least I'm still Mrs. Lucero," Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. "I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? "You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream's over, and your precious Beckham probably won't even remember your name." Aiyana ground the word out. "You..." "If I were you, I'd be worrying about my own situation right now," Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. "Instead of calling someone you'll never measure up to just to show off." She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop. Celia didn't even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas. When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing. Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago. That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant. Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah's name under his breath. She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now. Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned. "What are you doing here?" he had asked. "This is our bedroom," she had said softly. Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room. For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone's substitute, only herself. Now she finally understood that some people simply never look back. Her phone lit up again with a WhatsApp notification from Haley Dalton, her best friend from college and now Silvergate's most sought-after divorce lawyer. Haley: [Cece, I saw the news. Are you okay?] Celia stared at the message for a long time before replying. [I'm fine.] Haley texted back almost instantly: [My ass you are. Beckham's gone way too far this time. Picking Laylah up at the airport was one thing, but saying that in front of the media? What the hell does he take you for?] Haley's anger seemed to come straight through the screen. Celia stared at the phone for a long moment, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard before she finally typed back: [Hails, I need a favor.] Haley: [Name it.] Celia: [Help me draw up a divorce agreement.] After reading that message, Haley went quiet. A full five minutes passed before she called Celia directly. "Cece, are you serious?" Haley's voice was unusually heavy. "Yeah." Celia walked back to the window and looked out at the blurred rose garden in the dark. "It's been three years. It's time to end this." "But... can you really let it go?" Haley asked, her voice tight with heartache. "Do you even realize how much you've done for him these past three years? "His stomach's been bad for years, and you got up early every morning just to make him breakfast. Whenever work wore him out, you even learned massage so you could help him unwind. He..." "Hails," Celia cut in gently. "He never knew any of that." Haley went quiet on the other end. "He never saw me," Celia went on, her voice calm, as if she were talking about someone else's story. "I used to think that if I did enough, if I did it well enough, one day he'd finally notice. "Now I know better. It's not that he couldn't see. He just never wanted to." Haley took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll draft it for you. But Cece, think this through. Once you sign it, there's no going back." "I know." Celia gave a faint laugh. "That's exactly why I'm signing it." After the call ended, Celia stood by the window for a long time. The autumn chill crept in through the gap in the window, and only when she wrapped her arms around herself did she realize how cold she was. Her phone buzzed again with a push alert from X: [Beckham Lucero and Laylah Stein Spotted at the Same Hotel, Old Feelings Stirring Up Rumors.] The photos showed Beckham shielding Laylah and the child as they got into a car, along with a long-lens shot taken outside the hotel. Celia stared at the picture for a long moment before turning off her phone, walking to the vanity, and pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, instead of jewelry, was a custom silver laptop. She pressed the power button, and a pale blue glow lit up the screen. After the fingerprint and iris scan, a line of white text appeared against the black screen: [Welcome back, Dr. G.] Celia typed in a series of commands, and the screen immediately shifted to a complex molecular structure model. This was Serenib-1, the new targeted cancer drug Celia and her team had spent three years developing. It was meant for late-stage cancer and had already entered Phase III clinical trials. Last week's progress report showed an efficacy rate of 98.7 percent, an astonishing result. A message from her assistant popped up. [Dr. G, the NIH in Valoria has sent another invitation. They want you to deliver a keynote.] Celia replied with one word. [Decline it.] Another message appeared almost immediately. [But Dr. G, this is already the third time.] Celia replied: [I said decline.] Then she closed that chat window and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were the papers she had published in international medical journals under the name G. Ross, with no photo and no personal details attached. All these years, she had done all her research in the basement lab beneath the Lucero Residence. Beckham had never known that his wife from that business marriage, the woman he thought only knew how to grow flowers and cook, was actually the lead scientist behind Project Serene. Her phone buzzed again. This time, it came through the lab's emergency channel. [Dr. G, a patient in Phase III has developed a severe adverse reaction and is now in acute liver failure. We need you on an emergency remote consult immediately.] Celia glanced at the time. It was already one in the morning. She replied: [Loop me into the consult in ten minutes.] Then she rose, changed her clothes, and quietly headed downstairs. Chapter 3 Morning Surprise When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light. Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples. That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she'd pushed herself that hard. By the time she'd finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She'd gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. Her eyes were as red as she'd expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake. Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare. As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do. But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child's bright laugh drifted up from the living room below. Laylah's soft voice followed. "Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around." Then came Beckham's voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. "Take your time. No rush." Celia's fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold. Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth. Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before. In Celia's memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him. But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered. "Don't spoil him too much, Beckham," Laylah said. "Let him eat by himself." "It's fine." Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo's mouth. "He went through a scare yesterday. I'll let him have this today." Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, "Beckham's the best." Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy's hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below. Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met. The warm smile on Laylah's face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. "Ms. Ross, you're up." Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected. Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table. "Morning," Celia said, her tone even. Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she'd cried all night. "Why are you only getting up now?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "I didn't sleep well," Celia said. She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. "Go on. Don't mind me." Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room. "Ms. Ross," Laylah called after her. Celia turned and looked at her. Laylah looked apologetic. "I'm sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position. "Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I've been away for three years, and I didn't know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead. "I didn't expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn't stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night. "I'm really sorry for causing him so much trouble." It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with. First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate. Then came the story about her parents, the three years she'd been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made. Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all. Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate. But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them. Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah's apologetic face to Beckham. He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo's mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it. Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah's chest tighten all the same. "You're being too polite, Ms. Stein," Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. "Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?" Laylah's expression changed ever so slightly. Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia. Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. "Still, you're young, and your son's still little. Sooner or later, you'll meet the right man. "You can't keep asking someone else's husband to step in for you, can you?" The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in. The smile on Laylah's face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. "You're right, Ms. Ross. I didn't think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. "You don't need to leave." He lifted his eyes to Celia, his gaze gone cold. "This is Laylah's home too. She can stay here as long as she likes." "Home?" Celia repeated softly. The smile at her lips deepened slightly. "You are right. Ms. Stein can stay as long as she likes. After all..." Her gaze dipped to Ricardo, then lifted back to Laylah. "Now that her son's old enough to know better, someone should be here to fill in as his father." Laylah understood immediately, and her face went pale. Beckham shoved back his chair and stood up so fast it scraped hard against the floor. "Celia, that's enough." "Enough of what?" Celia raised her eyes to him. The redness around them was still there, but her gaze had gone unnervingly calm. "Did I say anything wrong? Doesn't Ms. Stein's son need a father? Or is it that..." She let the last few words hang for a beat. "He already has one?" "You..." Beckham's expression hardened with anger. "Beckham." Laylah caught hold of his arm, her voice breaking as tears ran down her face. "Please don't. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have come back." The moment he saw his mother in tears, Ricardo's face crumpled. "Mommy, don't cry." The whole scene had turned into a mess, and all Celia felt was a deep, bone-tired weariness. She raised her coffee and started toward the living room. "Stop right there," Beckham said behind her. Celia stopped, but she didn't look back. "Apologize to Laylah," he said, his tone flat and absolute. Only then did Celia turn. She held his gaze for a long moment before a smile slowly touched her lips. "Sure." She walked up to Laylah and stopped in front of her. Her voice was gentle, almost too sincere to question. "Ms. Stein, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly or put you in an awkward position." Laylah froze, thrown by how readily Celia had apologized. "But," Celia said, looking at Laylah calmly, "everything I said was true. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe that's because it wasn't something you wanted to hear." Celia didn't wait to see how anyone reacted. Coffee in hand, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Outside, the rose garden glowed in the sun. Celia stood there with her back straight, looking distant and untouchable. From the dining room, Beckham stared at her back, an unfamiliar irritation stirring in his chest. He could tell something about Celia was different today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Beckham." Laylah tugged lightly at his sleeve, her voice thick with tears. "Maybe I really should leave." "You don't need to." Beckham pulled his gaze away from Celia, and his tone softened. "Stay for now. We'll deal with the rest later." He sat back down and resumed feeding Ricardo, but his movements had lost their earlier ease. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the kitchen, a few of the maids traded glances and murmured among themselves. "Poor Mrs. Lucero. Her eyes are all swollen from crying." "Exactly. Mrs. Lucero's been so good to Mr. Lucero these past three years. Everyone in this house knows it. She's up at five every morning making breakfast for him." "He's had stomach problems for years, so she's always adjusting the menu for him." "And what did she get for all that? Mr. Lucero only has eyes for Ms. Stein now. Look at Ms. Stein. Her son's already this big, and Mrs. Lucero's been married for three years without even having a child." "Didn't you hear? Mr. Lucero's never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero's room." "Seriously?" "I've seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room." Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants' pity, her husband's indifference, and everyone else's quiet ridicule. And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable. The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn't taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her. Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, "Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now." "Mm," Celia replied without turning to look at him. Beckham paused before adding, "Don't make things harder for them." At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm. "Beckham," she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. "In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?" Beckham froze at the question. "Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even..." Celia's voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. "The woman you care about most?" Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had. For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him. "So." Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. "What makes you think I'd start now?" Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. "About last night..." he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin. "I know you were with them last night," Celia said for him. "Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed." She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham's chest only deepened. "Celia, we need to talk," he said. "About what?" Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. "About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?" "About giving her son a real family? Or..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "About how I should quietly make room for them?" Beckham felt something seize in his chest. "I never said I wanted you to leave." His voice came out dry. Chapter 4 Tension at Breakfast Celia felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Keeping a straight face, she slipped it out and glanced down. A WhatsApp message from Haley popped up. The divorce papers were ready, and the file was still downloading. After firing off a quick reply, she slipped her phone away and looked up, only to find Beckham watching her. He'd clearly noticed and was waiting for an explanation. Celia gave him nothing. Instead, she turned to the maid by the kitchen door. "Macy, could you send some breakfast up to my room? Toast, eggs, and milk. Thanks." Her voice was calm, polite, and distant. Macy froze for a second, then instinctively looked at Beckham. In this house, Celia had never asked for anything unless Beckham spoke first. Beckham's expression darkened. "Breakfast is served in the dining room." "I'm tired. I'd rather eat in my room," Celia said evenly, not even glancing at him. "You all go ahead." She picked up the cold coffee and headed for the stairs. "Celia." Beckham's voice came from behind her, laced with open displeasure. "There are rules in this house." She stopped, then slowly turned around. Her eyes moved over the three people in the dining room. Beckham had gone back to the head of the table, his brows drawn tight. Laylah sat to his right, head lowered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Ricardo sat in his high chair with a spoon in hand, watching the adults with curiosity. They looked exactly like a family of three. In that moment, Celia seemed like the only one who didn't belong. "Rules?" Celia repeated lightly, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. "I've spent three years learning the Lucero family's rules. You made sure I learned them well. I remember every single one." Her eyes settled on Beckham. The swelling around them was still there, but her gaze had gone frighteningly clear. "Like keeping quiet at the table. "Like waiting until the elders start before anyone else eats." "And like..." Her voice dropped, and the irony in it was impossible to miss. "When the husband doesn't come home, the wife is supposed to sit up alone and wait for him." Beckham's face tightened at her last sentence. The whole dining room went still. Even Ricardo seemed to sense the shift in the air and carefully set his spoon down. Laylah looked up, her eyes reddening again. Her voice wavered as she said, "Ms. Ross, please don't blame Beckham. This is all on me. I'll find somewhere else to stay and move out as soon as I can. I mean it." "Laylah," Beckham cut in, his voice turning sharp with irritation. "You're not moving." Then he turned back to Celia, his gaze icy. "Breakfast is eaten in the dining room. If you're Mrs. Lucero, then act like it." "Mrs. Lucero?" Celia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Beckham, when have you ever treated me like your wife?" She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and headed upstairs, moving so quickly it was obvious she only wanted to get away. Behind her, Laylah's muffled sobs started again, followed by Beckham's low voice trying to soothe her. "Don't cry. This isn't on you." Celia quickened her pace and went upstairs without looking back, heading straight for the bedroom. She shut the door and leaned back against it, breathing hard as though she'd only just come up for air. Her chest was so tight she could barely draw a full breath. Her eyes began to sting again, but she blinked the tears back with force. She wasn't going to cry, not now. At the vanity, she opened her laptop and brought up the file Haley had sent over. The divorce agreement ran to thirty-seven pages, clear, thorough, and tightly drafted. No wonder Haley was the top divorce lawyer in Silvergate. She had thought of everything. But Celia wanted the simplest arrangement possible. She wanted nothing from Beckham, only her freedom. Her phone buzzed again. Seeing it was from downstairs, she let it ring out. When it came through again, she finally answered without a word. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory said carefully. "Breakfast is ready. Would you like us to bring it upstairs, or..." "Please send it up," Celia said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Thank you, Cory." "Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Mrs. Lucero, please don't take it too hard. Mr. Lucero just..." "I'm fine," Celia cut in. "Thank you, Cory." After hanging up, she went to the window and looked down at the garden. The gardener was pruning the last wilted roses. With each snip, another spent bloom dropped to the ground. It felt a little too much like the past three years of her life. She had given everything, only to be drained dry and pushed aside when someone new came along. ***** The dining room was still heavy with tension. Laylah had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red. She wiped Ricardo's mouth and asked softly, "All done, sweetheart?" Ricardo nodded. "Mm-hmm." "Then Mommy will take you outside for a bit, okay?" "Okay." Laylah picked him up and looked at Beckham, apology flickering in her eyes. "I'll take Ricardo to the garden. You should go check on Celia." Beckham gave a slight nod. At the door, Laylah paused and glanced back once. Beckham was still sitting there, staring at the bowl of oatmeal that had long since gone cold, his brows drawn tight. She bit her lip, then turned and left. Now Beckham was alone in the dining room. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. What stayed with him was Celia's look, the swelling around her eyes, the tears she had kept forcing back, and above all, that unnerving calm, which unsettled him more than tears ever could. His phone rang, breaking the silence. Beckham opened his eyes and saw his mother, Emily Lucero, calling. The moment he answered, Emily's voice came rushing through the line. "Beckham, I saw the news. Laylah is back, and she brought a three-year-old boy with her. Whose child is he? Is he yours?" Beckham rubbed his brow. "Mom, I..." "Don't brush me off. I asked whether that boy is a Lucero." "I don't know yet." "You don't know?" Emily let out a cold laugh. "Laylah was gone for three years and comes back with a boy that age, and you're telling me you don't know? What else could that timing mean?" Beckham said nothing. Emily kept going. "If that boy really is ours, then settle things with Celia already. It's been three years, and she still hasn't given you a child. What's the point of keeping her as your wife?" Beckham's brows tightened. "Mom, mind your words." "Why should I?" Emily snapped. "If your grandfather hadn't forced that marriage, I never would have let her into this family in the first place. "She comes from nothing, has no standing to speak of, and spends her days messing around with flowers. Look at Laylah. She's an internationally known ballerina. She has a career. "And now she's back with a child. If you'd married her back then, do you think I'd still have to wait this long for a grandchild?" "Mom." Beckham's voice hardened. Emily refused to stop. "Laylah is sweet, she knows how to deal with people, and she actually knows how to carry herself. "Celia mopes around all day, just like her mother. And your father was always taking her side. Don't tell me that didn't mean something." "Enough," Beckham cut in, his voice cold enough to shut her down. Emily fell silent for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his tone. When she spoke again, her voice eased slightly. "I'm saying this for your own good. "Bring Laylah and the boy to Lucero Mansion for dinner tonight. I want to see that child for myself. Don't bring Celia. I don't want her there." Beckham took a slow breath and forced down the anger rising in him. "I already have plans tonight." "What could possibly be more important than coming to see your mother?" Emily snapped. "If I still mean anything to you, you'll bring them here tonight." Before Beckham could say another word, the line went dead. He stared at the dark screen in his hand, jaw tight, with anger surging through his chest. Then he shoved his chair back and got to his feet so abruptly it screeched across the floor. Upstairs, Celia had finished breakfast and gone back to the vanity, her laptop open to the divorce agreement. A new message popped up from Haley. [Read through it yet? Anything you want changed?] Celia replied: [No. It looks good.] Haley: [Then when are you giving it to him?] Celia looked at the screen for a few seconds before replying: [Tomorrow.] Then she typed another message: [Hails, I need you to draft a backup agreement too.] Haley: [What kind of backup agreement?] Celia: [Start with a fallback plan for separation. I want something in place in case he refuses to sign or keeps dragging this out. And I want it to preserve any divorce filing and any related claims I may need later.] Then Haley finally replied with a single line. [Cece, you've changed.] Celia stared at the message. Her hands went still over the keyboard, then a faint tremor crept into her fingertips. Haley was right. The Celia who used to stay quiet, swallow the hurt, and keep waiting for Beckham was gone. Last night's livestream had already snapped something in her, and the quiet humiliation at breakfast was the last straw. That old version of her was over. She could still be hurt, still bleed, but she would never stand there and take it again. This time, she would fight back. Celia: [People change. Especially after they realize how blind they've been.] Haley: [Got it. I'll draft it now. Whatever happens, I'm here.] Celia thanked Haley, then closed the chat and opened another encrypted folder. Inside were years of research findings, published papers, and awards, along with the true identity she had kept hidden for three years. Beckham had never known that she was the chief scientist behind Project Serene, known only as Dr. G. Her phone rang again. This time, it was the lab's emergency line. Chapter 5 Laylah's Little Game Celia answered immediately, and her assistant's panicked voice came through the line. "Dr. G, something's wrong. Patient Three in the Phase III trial is having a severe immune reaction. "His vitals are crashing. The expert panel is already on a remote consult, but the situation isn't looking good." Celia's face hardened at once. "Send me the data. Now." "But you've been up all night," her assistant said. "Send it," Celia repeated, her tone flat and final. Five minutes later, the full chart was on her laptop, including the patient's medical history, test results, and live monitoring data. Celia put on her glasses and opened Patient Three's file. He was sixty-seven with advanced lung cancer. He had already been through three rounds of chemo, and by the time he entered the trial, he was barely hanging on. He had responded well at first to Serenib-1, and the tumor had shrunk significantly. But that morning, his condition had suddenly crashed, sending him into acute respiratory failure. Celia scanned the numbers line by line, already working through the possibilities. It was neither an allergic reaction nor a dosing issue. The problem had to be somewhere else. "His oxygen saturation just dropped to seventy-five," her assistant said, voice shaking. "Prep for intubation," Celia said. "Give ten milligrams of dexamethasone IV and forty of methylprednisolone IV. Get anesthesia on standby and be ready to resuscitate." "But the steroids could..." her assistant started. "Do exactly what I said," Celia snapped. "This is a cytokine storm, not a drug reaction. Move. Now." Her tone left no room for argument. A second later, she could already hear orders being passed along on the other end. Celia kept her eyes fixed on the live numbers, one hand tightening against the desk. She had spent three years on this drug, and it had already cost her too much. One severe adverse event could get the trial suspended and bring everything down with it. More importantly, the patient could die, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Time crawled, and every second felt endless. Ten minutes later, her assistant came on again, nearly shouting. "Dr. G, his oxygen saturation is back up to eighty-five. He's stable." Only then did Celia let out the breath she had been holding. She sank back into her chair, cold sweat soaking her back. "Keep monitoring him," she said. "The second anything changes, call me." "Yes, Dr. G," her assistant replied. After the call ended, Celia took off her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. When she finally looked up at the mirror, the reflection caught her off guard. Her face was drained of color, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night and the strain of the emergency. A knock sounded at the door. "Mrs. Lucero," Cory called from outside. "Mr. Lucero wants to know if you'd like to come down for lunch." Celia stared at her reflection for a moment before answering softly, "No. I'm tired. I want to lie down for a while." "But..." "Cory, tell him this. If he wants to talk about the divorce papers, he can come find me anytime. If not, I don't have anything else to say to him." There was a brief silence outside. Then Cory gave a quiet sigh. "All right." By the time his footsteps faded down the hall, Celia was already walking toward the bed. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself, but she couldn't fall asleep. Her eyes burned, and the same images kept circling through her mind: Beckham shielding Laylah in the airport livestream, feeding Ricardo at the breakfast table, and the patient gasping for air as he hovered at death's door. Some people were trapped by love. Some were weighed down by money. Some ran themselves ragged chasing status and profit. She had thrown away three years to a marriage that had died before it ever had the chance to become real. None of it had been worth it. ***** After leaving the dining room with Ricardo in her arms, Laylah did not go upstairs. Instead, she headed through the side door into the garden. The moment she pushed open the glass door, a wash of cool air and the sweet scent of roses greeted them. Ricardo lit up at once and started squirming in her arms. "Mommy, flowers. Pretty flowers." "Shh." Laylah pressed a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "Be good, Ricardo. Keep your voice down. Beckham's working." Ricardo immediately clapped both hands over his mouth and looked up at her with wide, serious eyes. Laylah carried him deeper into the garden and sat down on a bench beside a cluster of pink roses in full bloom. The spot was far enough from the main house and screened by the flowers, so no one was likely to overhear them. She set Ricardo down beside her, took a handkerchief from her bag, and gently wiped the oatmeal from the corner of his mouth. "Ricardo, you did so well in there," she said softly, as if sharing a secret with him. "Beckham fed you, and you were so good." Ricardo tipped his face up and said in his small, childish voice, "Mommy told me to be nice to Beckham." "That's right." Laylah smiled, though the look in her eyes shifted for a moment. "He likes you, so stay close to him, okay?" Ricardo nodded hard, then frowned a little. "But that lady didn't look happy." Laylah paused, then folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into her bag. Pinching his cheek lightly, she said, "That lady is Beckham's wife, and she lives here. "But Beckham doesn't care about her. He only cares about Mommy and you. So it doesn't matter if she's unhappy. What matters is whether Beckham is happy. Okay?" Ricardo did not really understand, but he nodded anyway. Laylah looked at his little face, and something in her expression shifted. Ricardo looked so much like her, in his eyes, his nose, even the faint upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. But every now and then, a hint of someone else would show through. Laylah closed her eyes for a moment and pushed the memory down before it could take hold. "Ricardo, listen to Mommy." She leaned in close, her voice soft and coaxing. "If that lady asks who your daddy is, you tell her you don't know." She paused for a moment, then continued, "And if she keeps asking, you cry and say you want Beckham." Ricardo tilted his head. "But Daddy..." "No." Laylah cut him off, her voice turning so sharp it made him flinch. "Remember this. You don't have a daddy. You only have Mommy and Beckham." Ricardo's mouth trembled, and tears sprang to his eyes at once. Laylah realized at once that she had lost control. She took a breath, schooled her expression, and pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. Mommy shouldn't have snapped at you," she said softly. "But you have to remember this, okay? Some things must never be said. If they are, Mommy will get hurt, and Beckham will too." "Don't cry, Mommy," Ricardo said. He reached up and awkwardly wiped at the corner of her eye. There were no tears there, but to him, she looked like she was about to cry. Laylah caught his small hand and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over its warmth. "I'm not crying," she said. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything." The garden fell quiet, with only the rustle of rosebushes in the breeze and the occasional birdsong in the distance. Laylah held Ricardo in her arms, but her gaze lifted to the closed window on the second floor of the main house. That was Celia's bedroom. She remembered Celia's swollen yet unnervingly calm eyes at breakfast and, even more clearly, that remark about a child Ricardo's age needing someone to fill a father's role. It had sounded offhand, but it struck straight at the one place Laylah could not afford to expose. For a split second, Laylah almost thought Celia knew something. Her fingers tightened before she realized it, and Ricardo squirmed in her arms. "Mommy, that hurts." She let go at once and patted his back. "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy didn't mean to." Laylah refused to believe Celia could know. She had covered that trail too carefully. Even Beckham had been kept in the dark, which meant Celia was either guessing or bluffing. Laylah steadied herself and slowly put her usual soft, composed expression back on. "Ricardo, there's something else Mommy needs you to remember," she said, lowering her eyes to him. Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. "If that lady wants to play with you or gives you anything to eat, ask Mommy first. Okay?" "Why?" he asked. Laylah paused for a moment before saying, "Because she doesn't like Mommy. And if she doesn't like Mommy, she may not be nice to you either." Ricardo's eyes widened at once. Laylah realized at once that she had scared him. She pulled him closer right away and soothed him softly. "It's okay. I said she might. As long as you listen to Mommy and stay away from her, you'll be all right. Do you understand?" "I do," Ricardo mumbled, tucking himself deeper into her arms. Laylah held him and gently rocked him, soothing him back down. Sunlight slipped through the leaves and dappled her face. The soft, gentle smile she wore so often was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a stillness so deep and quiet that it revealed nothing. Chapter 6 Back to Lucero Mansion By the time the black Maybach pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Lucero Mansion, dusk had already settled. Beckham got out from behind the wheel, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door for Laylah. She wore a cream knit dress under a light camel coat. Her long hair was loosely pinned up, with a few wisps falling by her ears, which softened her elegant look. Ricardo was asleep in her arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. "Let me take him," Beckham said, reaching for the child. "It's okay. I've got him." Laylah smiled gently. "He just fell asleep. If we switch, he'll wake right up." Beckham didn't push it. He closed the car door and walked beside her toward the carved front entrance. They had barely reached the steps when the door swung open. Emily came out in a deep plum dress, her hair swept up neatly, her face lit with barely contained excitement. Her gaze went first to Beckham, then to Laylah, before settling on the boy in her arms. "Laylah." Emily hurried forward, her voice full of warmth. "It really is you. Three years, and you still look just as beautiful." "Hello, Mrs. Lucero." Laylah greeted her with a polite smile. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" "Very good." Emily's eyes never left the boy in Laylah's arms. "And this is Ricardo, right? Oh, just look at him. Those eyes. That nose." When Emily reached out to touch his face, Laylah adjusted her hold just enough to stop her. "He just fell asleep, Mrs. Lucero. Let's not wake him." "Right, of course." Emily drew her hand back, still smiling. "Come on in. It's getting chilly." They walked into the living room together. The mansion looked just as it always had, with its dark wood, leather sofas, and expensive artwork on the walls. But tonight, the coffee table had been set up for a child, with toys, snacks, and a brand-new set of dishes laid out across it. "Sit, Laylah." Emily took Laylah by the hand and led her to the sofa, her eyes still on Ricardo. "Let me get a better look at him. Oh, that little face. And those lashes." Laylah kept smiling and shifted Ricardo slightly in her arms, giving Emily a clearer view. Nearby, Beckham sat down, a faint crease forming between his brows. The more excited his mother seemed, the more uneasy he felt. "Where's Dad?" he asked. "At the office. He'll be back later," Emily said without looking up. All her attention was still on Ricardo. "Let me hold him for a bit." Laylah hesitated for a moment, then carefully handed Ricardo over. Emily took him with both hands, as carefully as if she were receiving something priceless. Her eyes reddened almost at once. "Three years. I've waited three years for a grandchild, and now..." Her voice caught before she could finish. Laylah handed her a tissue at just the right moment and said gently, "Please don't cry, Mrs. Lucero. Ricardo can come see you anytime you like." "Anytime I like?" Emily dabbed at her eyes, her voice turning firm. "That won't do. Laylah, you and Ricardo should stay there with Beckham. Don't move out. There's plenty of room." Then her expression cooled. "As for Celia, Beckham will handle her." "Mrs. Lucero, that wouldn't be appropriate." Laylah lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Ms. Ross is still Beckham's wife. If Ricardo and I stay there, people will start talking." "Let them talk. Why should we care?" Emily shot back. "You and Beckham should've ended up together in the first place. If not for what happened back then... "Now you've come back with Ricardo. Maybe this was meant to be. Celia's been Beckham's wife for three years and still hasn't had a child. Why should she get to stay?" Beckham's frown deepened. "Mom, don't talk about Celia like that." "Why not? Am I wrong?" Emily rounded on him. "Three years, and she still hasn't had a child. Laylah was out there on her own all that time and still came back with your son. If you won't take care of her, who will?" The words were so blunt that the whole room fell silent. Laylah lowered her head, lightly twisting the edge of her sleeve as a faint blush spread to her ears. Just then, Ricardo stirred awake in Emily's arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked blearily around him, and then his gaze settled on Emily. "Grandma," he said in a sleepy little voice. The word undid Emily on the spot. Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them. She hugged him tighter, her voice trembling. "Grandma's here, sweetheart. Say it again for me. One more time." "Grandma," Ricardo said it again and reached up to touch her face. Emily broke down completely. Laylah hurried over and coaxed softly, "It's okay, Ricardo. Grandma's just overwhelmed. Come here. Mommy's got you." She took him back and patted him lightly before turning to Emily. "Please don't get too worked up, Mrs. Lucero. It's not good for you." "How can I not?" Emily wiped at her tears. "Beckham, just look at him. He's such a sweet boy. This is what a Lucero child should be like. Not like Celia, always with that empty look on her face." "Mom," Beckham finally snapped, his voice turning cold. "That's enough." "Enough of what?" Emily was too keyed up to stop. "I'm telling you, Beckham, if you still care about me at all, divorce her and marry Laylah. That's what's best for both you and Ricardo." "My life is mine to handle." "Seriously? If you knew how to handle it, this wouldn't still be dragging on three years later. I'm telling you, your father also—" She broke off mid-sentence when the front door opened. Tanner Lucero, Beckham's father, strode in, his face dark as a storm front. He was still in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, as if he had just come straight from the office. His gaze swept across the room, taking in Emily's tear-streaked face, Laylah standing stiffly, and Beckham's tightly drawn brows before finally settling on Ricardo in Laylah's arms. The air in the room turned taut. "Dad." Beckham rose to his feet. Tanner didn't respond. He walked straight in, set his briefcase on the coffee table, and said flatly, "Laylah, you are back?" "Yes, Mr. Lucero." Still holding Ricardo, Laylah offered him a polite smile. "It's been a long time." Tanner simply nodded and kept his eyes on Ricardo. "So this is the boy?" "Yes. His name is Ricardo. He's three," Laylah said softly, her fingers tightening before she realized it. Tanner looked at Ricardo for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Beckham. "Beckham. Study. Now." He turned and headed upstairs without another word. Beckham glanced at Laylah. "Wait here for me," he said quietly, then followed his father up. Emily started to say something, but one look from Tanner stopped her cold. As Beckham stepped into the study behind his father, the door clicked shut, sealing off whatever was said inside.