Adrian couldn't sleep.
He hadn't slept properly in years, but tonight was worse—he didn't even pretend. His body rested on the cold leather of his study's armchair, but his mind was pacing, pacing, pacing.
The folder with Celeste's birth records sat open on his lap, pages now crumpled at the edges from hours of absent handling. February 14. The same date Adrienne died. That couldn't be ignored. Her birth certificate read like a cruel joke from the universe, or some twisted cosmic design.
Was it even possible?
He didn't believe in reincarnation. He believed in numbers. Logic. Reality. The world could be cruel, but it was always rational. Death was permanent. Final. Cold.
And yet…
Her eyes.
That night in the conference room, when Celeste spoke about the gelato in Florence—he had seen Adrienne. Not in a vague, hopeful, grief-driven way. It wasn't a fantasy. It was a moment of absolute recognition, and it scared him more than any boardroom threat ever had.
He'd told himself she was just a girl. A stranger who stumbled into his life through coincidence and circumstance. But now—now it felt like every step she'd taken had been leading her back to him.
And that terrified him more than losing her the first time.
---
The morning came too quickly, dull and heavy. As Adrian sat through his board meeting, nodding absentmindedly at reports and charts, his mind drifted again and again to her. To Celeste.
He hadn't spoken to her since yesterday's confrontation. Part of him wanted to avoid her forever. Another part—one he hadn't listened to in over a decade—wanted to see her again. To talk. To ask impossible questions.
When the meeting ended, his assistant approached with a note.
"She left this for you," the assistant said, placing a thick envelope in his hand.
Inside was a handwritten proposal for the gala. Celeste's handwriting was neat, elegant, too familiar. She had made some bold creative suggestions—introducing an art auction featuring paintings from underprivileged children, including Aria, whose new interest in painting was beginning to show promise.
At the bottom, she had written:
"Sometimes, healing doesn't come from forgetting—but from honoring what was real."
His breath caught.
That was something Adrienne had once said to him. After they lost their first pregnancy. The words were nearly identical.
---
Meanwhile, at the estate…
Celeste stood in front of a blank canvas in the reopened sunroom, brush poised but unmoving. Aria sat beside her, quietly sketching. Aiden was on the floor near the corner, playing with a set of wooden puzzles but occasionally glancing up at her.
He still wasn't comfortable. Celeste could feel the wall he'd built around himself. It wasn't anger like Aria's had been—it was fear. Of getting close. Of losing someone again.
"I used to think all adults were brave," Aria said suddenly, her pencil scratching against the paper. "But I don't think Dad is. Not really."
Celeste glanced at her, surprised.
"He's strong," Aria continued, "but not brave. Brave people let themselves remember. He doesn't."
Celeste swallowed. "Maybe he's scared to."
"Are you scared?" Aria asked.
Celeste hesitated. "Every day."
That answer seemed to satisfy the girl. Aiden, who had been pretending not to listen, finally looked up.
"Do you miss someone too?" he asked softly.
Celeste nodded. "Very much."
The boy's eyes—so much like Adrian's—softened slightly. "Me too."
---
Later that day, a car arrived at the estate. Adrian.
Celeste wasn't expecting him. She was in the garden with the twins when she saw him step out, eyes shadowed and suit crumpled as if he hadn't changed from yesterday.
His gaze met hers—and lingered.
"You," he said simply. "Come with me."
She handed Aria her sketchbook and followed without question.
They drove in silence. Not to Lancaster Hall, but somewhere else. A place she hadn't seen in over a decade.
The cemetery.
Her heart stopped.
Adrian said nothing as he parked near a quiet, shaded path. He stepped out, motioned for her to follow, and walked to a small, pristine grave beneath a cherry blossom tree.
The headstone read:
Adrienne Lancaster
Beloved Wife, Daughter, and Mother
1990 – 2012
"She painted the world with love."
Celeste's knees nearly buckled.
He stood still, arms folded, staring at the stone.
"I come here once a year," he said, voice low. "I don't stay long. I never know what to say."
Celeste watched him.
"I used to believe time would dull it. That eventually, it would stop hurting. But it doesn't." He swallowed hard. "I buried her the same week I brought the twins home. I had no time to mourn. No space to collapse."
He looked at her.
"And then you showed up. Talking like her. Moving like her. Looking at me like her."
Celeste's voice trembled. "Because I am her."
He stepped toward her, not angrily—but with fear.
"Don't say that."
"But it's true."
"You're twenty-two. You were born the day she died. That's not—" He ran a hand through his hair. "It's not rational."
"Love never was," she whispered. "You said that once, too."
He turned away, but his voice cracked. "I don't know what to believe anymore."
Celeste stepped forward, slowly, and knelt before Adrienne's grave. Her fingers touched the smooth marble.
"You remember how you bought me tulips instead of roses because I once told you I didn't like thorns?" she whispered to the stone. "And how you used to read to me at night because my insomnia wouldn't let me sleep?"
Adrian stared, shaken.
"Adrienne," she continued, eyes brimming, "was not perfect. She was impatient. She cried over small things. She loved too much and worried too deeply. But she never stopped loving you. Even when she was dying."
Adrian's breath caught in his throat.
"She asked the nurse not to tell you how bad it was. Because she didn't want you to remember her in pain."
He turned his face away, shoulders trembling.
Celeste rose, stepping beside him. "I didn't come back to haunt you. I came back because my love for you didn't end in death."
He faced her slowly, eyes wet with unshed grief. "I don't know how to do this."
"You don't have to," she whispered. "Just let yourself feel again."
---
They sat in the garden near the gravesite for a long time afterward. No words. Just presence.
By the time they returned to the estate, twilight had fallen. Celeste stepped out of the car, her legs weak, but her heart oddly at peace.
Before she turned to leave, Adrian spoke.
"You'll stay."
She looked back.
He wasn't asking.
"You'll stay here. In the estate," he said. "You'll work directly with me on the gala."
"Why?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Because… something in me is beginning to believe you."
---
That night, in her room, Celeste finally allowed herself to cry.
Not just for Adrienne, but for Adrian. For the years he had walked in grief alone. For the children who never knew their mother. For the life that ended too early.
But now, it had a chance to begin again.
Not as before—but as something new. Something braver. Something reborn.
To be continued...