Chapter Sixteen: The Penthouse Prisoner
Celia had seen a lot of ridiculous things since reincarnating. But nothing — not even dying mid-noodle — prepared her for Prince's penthouse.
It wasn't a home. It was a spaceship. Chrome surfaces, art pieces that probably cost more than her entire past life, and a view of the city so high up she swore she saw God waving back.
"Okay," she muttered as she wandered through the living room, "so you live in the Sims 6: Billionaire Edition. Where's the part where you lock me in a pool with no ladder?"
Prince didn't look up from the folder he was reading. "Don't touch anything."
Naturally, Celia immediately poked the shiny sculpture on the coffee table. "What's this? A fancy lamp? Or a death ray?"
He finally looked at her, eyes narrowing. "It's a Calder original."
She blinked. "…Cool. Still looks like a fancy death ray."
By evening, she had decided the penthouse was less spaceship and more luxury prison. Prince gave her a guest room with silk sheets that felt like sleeping on clouds, but also installed himself in the hallway outside like a watchdog.
Celia leaned out of her doorway. "Do you seriously think Vanessa is going to storm the building with torches and pitchforks?"
Prince didn't glance up from his phone. "She doesn't need torches. She has the internet."
Celia groaned and flopped back on the bed. "Great. So I'm Rapunzel and you're my grumpy tower guard. At least you have better hair."
He ignored that, which meant she'd scored a point.
The next morning, Celia padded into the kitchen, wearing pajamas that screamed I gave up. She found Prince already there, sharp suit, black coffee, flipping through the news.
She poured herself cereal with dramatic flair. "Wow. Imagine being awake before sunrise just to look like the villain in a K-drama. Truly inspirational."
"Eat quickly," Prince said flatly. "We're meeting with my PR team."
Celia choked on her cornflakes. "PR team? Like… official crisis management? Are we celebrities now?"
"You've been trending for three days," he reminded her.
"Trending for the wrong reasons!" she shot back.
He sipped his coffee like it was liquid indifference. "All the more reason to contain it."
But containment was a joke.
Halfway through their breakfast standoff, Lila stormed into the penthouse with a tablet in hand. "Darling—Vanessa has struck again!"
Celia froze mid-bite. "What this time? Did she Photoshop me into an alien cult?"
Worse. Lila shoved the tablet at them. On-screen was a video clip: Beverly (the real Beverly, before Celia's soul swap) at a family gala, sitting silently beside her father while he whispered something to a business partner. The audio was grainy, but captions were already plastered over it online:
"She knew. She was part of it."
The hashtags were worse:
#BeverlyExposed
#FraudHeiress
#ShieldedByPrince
Celia nearly dropped the tablet. "That's not even me! That's… okay, technically it IS me but not really me—ugh, reincarnation is a PR nightmare!"
Prince leaned forward, jaw clenched. "The clip is heavily edited. But the damage is done."
Lila's eyes darted between them nervously. "Darling, the public thinks Beverly was her father's accomplice. And Vanessa is feeding them that narrative."
Celia groaned into her cereal bowl. "I hate this arc. Can we skip to the part where I get magical powers or something?"
Prince ignored her dramatics and turned to Lila. "Scrub the video. Trace the source." His voice was sharp enough to cut steel.
But when his eyes flicked back to Celia, something in them softened. Barely. "Stay inside. Don't talk to anyone. Don't give her more ammunition."
Celia stared at him. For all his brooding and control-freak energy, there was real tension in his face now — not just about reputation, but about her.
Her chest tightened before she shoved the feeling away. "Fine. But if I die again, you're explaining it to God this time."
That night, the penthouse was too quiet.
Celia tossed and turned in bed, her mind replaying the video. Vanessa wasn't just clawing for clout anymore. She was reaching into Beverly's real trauma — her father, the silence, the fear — and twisting it into a weapon.
Celia sat up, hugging her knees. Beverly… you hated him, didn't you? But you could never say it. And now it's on me to fight this fight for you.
She didn't realize Prince was outside her door until his voice came low and steady. "You're not sleeping."
She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Do you… hover outside all night? That's not creepy at all!"
There was a pause. "You cry in your sleep."
Celia's throat closed. Beverly's memories, Beverly's nightmares. She hadn't even realized.
When she didn't answer, Prince spoke again, softer this time. "You're stronger than she thinks. Don't let Vanessa break you."
Her heart twisted. Was that… encouragement? From the ice king himself?
She wanted to joke, to deflect, but for once, she just whispered: "Thanks."
The silence between them stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.
And for the first time, Celia wondered — maybe he wasn't just her reluctant jailer. Maybe he was the only ally she had left.