Thorns Grow After Betrayal (Celeste and Chester) novel Chapter 14

Rain had poured over Oceanview City all night, and the lights in the operating room flickered on and off as surgeons worked through the darkness.

By dawn, Celestine finally managed to open her heavy eyelids. Her entire body still burned with fever and a dull ache that showed no sign of fading.

"Miss Selwyn, you're dealing with a viral infection. Luckily, you got here in time. If you'd come any later and it turned into pneumonia, your life would've been at risk." The nurse, who had stopped by to change her bandages, chattered softly at Celestine's bedside, concern etched on her young face as she handed over a freshly charged phone. "Last night, we tried calling your husband several times, but no one picked up. Then the phone died. You should let your family know—you must have people worried about you."

Celestine accepted the phone, her expression unreadable, though her heart twisted painfully at the nurse's words.

She forced a polite smile. "Thank you. I'll call him."

Families like theirs—perfect, happy, and whole—never had time for her calls.

Celestine powered up her phone as soon as it had enough charge. The screen lit up, and she saw several missed calls from Chester.

She paused, surprised.

Before she could process it, the special ringtone she'd set for her daughter rang out.

Worried that something might have happened, she answered quickly. "Hello? Celia, is everything—?"

"Mom!" Celia's voice cut through, cold and furious. "Do you have any idea? Because of you, Miss Sinclair almost died!"

Celestine's face went still. "Celia, what are you talking about?"

Her daughter's voice only grew more agitated. "The doctor said Miss Sinclair had a severe allergic reaction from wearing your clothes! Dad stayed with her all night—she barely made it! If you hadn't put that herbal stuff on your pajamas, she wouldn't have been in danger. You're a murderer! Why aren't you the one in the hospital bed?"

Hearing her own child—the daughter she'd carried for nine months—curse her with such venom was like having every bone in her body carved apart with a rusty knife.

Her vision blurred, the tears welling until everything shimmered. The ache in her chest, numb for so long, suddenly throbbed with renewed pain.

Then, out of nowhere, a small, pale hand appeared before her, offering a tissue.

"Miss Angel, your eyes are raining. Here, wipe them."

Celestine looked up. In front of her stood a little girl, maybe four years old, dressed in a hospital gown. Her skin was porcelain pale, her dark hair a bit messy, and her eyes—clear and deep as summer grapes—were filled with concern.

It was little Cynthia from the next bed.

Just that morning, Celestine had noticed Cynthia's IV nearly empty and had called for the nurse before anything could go wrong.