Thorns Grow After Betrayal (Celeste and Chester) novel Chapter 198

By the shore.

A cold, decaying cross lay half-buried in wet sand, rotted by the relentless tide.

A white jacket, stained with dried, rust-colored blood, rested nearby—silent testimony to the violence that had taken place.

There was no sign of life anywhere.

"We did everything we could. In the past few days, the search team has expanded the rescue area tenfold—but all we've found are these two things."

Luther stared at the recovered items, grief rising in his chest like a wave threatening to pull him under.

All the restraint he'd managed until now unraveled, giving way to a raw, aching wail.

"Celly… it was your grandfather who failed you."

With trembling hands, Chester slowly dropped to one knee, lifting the salt-stiffened jacket. His dark eyes brimmed with an agony so deep it bordered on disbelief—he couldn't, or wouldn't, accept the truth.

For a long moment, he was utterly still. Then, suddenly he broke, his voice cracking into a desperate roar. "No! She's not dead! She's not the kind of person who gives up—she wouldn't just leave us like that!"

The rescue chief let out a weary sigh. "Mr. Fordham, you need to prepare yourself. Every year, at least a dozen people drown in these waters and never return. Even if your wife managed to free herself from those ropes, the odds—"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Chester lunged, grabbing the man by the collar, wild with grief. "Don't say that! Keep searching! If you haven't found a body, she's not dead. Keep looking!"

"O-Of course," the rescue chief stammered, silently cursing under his breath.

He rounded up his team and sent them back into the water.

"Boss, we're still looking for that woman? It's been three days. If she was alive, we'd have found her by now—she's probably halfway to the next life."

"Who knows," another muttered, "rich folks love to make a show of it—acting like they're so heartbroken over their spouses. The more tragic, the better! But hey, they're paying us by the hour, so let's keep dredging. Maybe we'll actually haul up a few bodies for him to identify!"

Their laughter was harsh and cold.

But then, as if fate were playing some cruel joke, he started to flounder—his arms flailing, head going under. He was drowning.

Panic jolted Celestine. She'd never wanted anyone else to die for her.

With a surge of adrenaline, she wriggled free from the ropes, the saltwater slick on her skin helping her twist loose. Summoning every scrap of strength, she dragged Gideon to shore, hauling him onto the sand of this lonely island.

Soaked to the bone and shivering, Celestine pulled Gideon's limp body further up the beach. She knelt beside him, gently slapping his pale cheek.

"Mr. Prescott… Wake up, Mr. Prescott…"

His striking face was eerily still, showing no sign of life.

Celestine fumbled with trembling fingers, unbuttoning his collar, ready to start CPR.

If anyone saw them now, they'd probably think she was some Good Samaritan, rescuing a lost soul from the sea.