Chapter Five: A Prince Problem
Celia woke up with a splitting headache.
Not from champagne, not from crying, but from the fact that she had dreamt of Beverly—the real Beverly—talking to her from a mirror. And if there was one thing she knew about nightmares, it was that they had a nasty way of turning out to be metaphors.
But metaphors could wait. Because right now?
Her phone was blowing up.
Over fifty notifications.
Half were from her fake friends tagging her in brunch photos (#BrunchQueens #BevvyIsBack). The other half? From gossip blogs.
One headline screamed at her:
"Heiress Beverly Torres and Billionaire Prince Okafor: Back On?"
Celia nearly dropped the phone. "BACK ON WHAT?! I didn't even get on in the first place!"
She scrolled through the article, which featured photos of their brunch encounter. In one, Prince was leaning close, smirking at her. In another, she looked like she was trying not to choke on her drink.
The comments were worse:
• Beverly always finds a way to land on her feet 😒
• Prince deserves better smh
• She's literally unkillable, like a cockroach in designer heels.
"Wow," Celia muttered. "Reincarnated, but still bullied. Thanks, universe."
⸻
She decided she needed information—fast. If she was going to survive Beverly's messy life, she had to know everything.
So she called Grace, the maid.
"Grace," she said, lowering her voice like she was about to buy black market organs. "What's the deal with me and Prince?"
Grace blinked. "Miss… you mean you don't remember?"
Right. Amnesia excuse. She forced a pained expression. "Trauma, Grace. It scrambled my brain like eggs."
Grace sighed. "Well… you and Mr. Prince were very close last year. He courted you, but your father disapproved. You… rejected him. Publicly. It was quite the scandal."
Celia's jaw dropped. "Publicly? Like—in front of people?"
Grace nodded. "At the New Year's Gala. You told him to 'stop chasing you like a street hawker.'"
Celia slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh my God. Beverly was savage."
Grace gave her a long look. "You don't usually ask about these things, Miss. Are you planning to… reconcile with him?"
Celia snorted. "Reconcile? Please. I'd rather die again."
But deep down, her stomach twisted. Because something about the way Prince had looked at her yesterday—like he was in on a secret she didn't know—was haunting her.
⸻
That evening, the mansion was quiet. Celia decided to snoop.
She crept into Beverly's study, rifling through drawers. Most of it was nonsense—receipts, unopened letters, skincare samples. But then she found it: a locked black box.
Naturally, she pried it open with a nail file.
Inside were old photos. Not of Beverly, but of… Prince.
Prince smiling. Prince in a suit. Prince looking furious.
And one picture—burned around the edges—of Prince standing beside Beverly, his arm around her shoulders. On the back, in Beverly's handwriting, were three chilling words:
"He knows everything."
Celia's skin crawled.
She shoved the box shut and turned—only to freeze.
Prince was standing in the doorway.
"Looking for something?" he asked smoothly.
Celia nearly fell over. "What the—how did you get in here?!"
He stepped inside, hands in his pockets, eyes glinting. "This is your house. Or did you forget that too?"
Her pulse quickened. He was too close again. Too calm. Too dangerous.
"I—uh—I was just… tidying," she stammered.
Prince smiled, slow and sharp. "Beverly, you've been acting different lately. Almost like you're not yourself." Well she wasn't
Her breath caught. Did he… know? Probably not
He leaned closer, so close she could feel his breath against her ear.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "I'll figure you out."