Chapter Nineteen: Breakfast Before the Bomb
Celia woke up to the smell of coffee and something suspiciously delicious.
She stumbled into the penthouse kitchen, hair a bird's nest, only to find Prince at the stove. Actually cooking. In a black t-shirt, no less.
Celia blinked. "Okay. Plot twist. Since when does the broody billionaire do domestic cosplay?"
Prince flipped a pancake with surgical precision. "You're loud in the mornings."
"You're making pancakes," she shot back. "What are you, my reincarnated mom?"
He slid the plate onto the counter, unbothered. "Eat. You'll need energy."
Celia narrowed her eyes but grabbed a fork anyway. "What are you buttering me up for? Are you about to sell me to aliens?"
For a second, she swore his mouth twitched. "Aliens would return you in under an hour."
Celia gasped dramatically. "You wound me."
By the second pancake, she found herself watching him more than eating. Not just because his t-shirt was doing sinful things to her brain, but because there was something steady in the way he moved — like cooking wasn't foreign to him.
"You've done this before," she accused.
Prince raised a brow. "Cooking?"
"Yeah. Don't give me that stoic heir who only eats caviar face. You're flipping pancakes like a dad on Saturday morning."
His eyes flickered, almost softer. "My grandfather taught me."
Celia paused mid-bite. She wanted to press, to ask more — but before she could, her phone buzzed violently on the counter.
Lila's voice shrieked from the speaker. "Darling—it's here! The tape!"
Celia's appetite evaporated. "Oh no. No no no no."
Prince grabbed the phone and pulled up the feed.
On every platform, Vanessa's post was spreading like wildfire:
"Unedited: Beverly's Father Exposed."
A full-length audio file. No cuts, no captions. Just Beverly's father's cold voice admitting to shady deals, threats, and cover-ups.
But the worst part?
Halfway through the tape, his voice dropped to a hiss:
"My daughter will learn silence, or she'll regret being born."
Celia's stomach twisted. Beverly's memories slammed into her like a truck — the fear, the constant weight of that voice. She gripped the counter until her knuckles went white.
Prince's jaw clenched. "He threatened you."
She looked up sharply Not me. Her. Beverly "But now it's my mess to clean."
The internet was already feasting:
ScandalWatch: HE THREATENED HER?? This is worse than fraud!
Vanessa4Life: Beverly knew, she was complicit, don't pity her.
PrinceDefenseSquad: Protect her at all costs!!
Celia buried her face in her hands. "I can't… I can't win this. Even if I scream the truth, no one will believe me."
Silence stretched heavy between them — until Prince stepped closer, his voice low but firm.
"Then we don't fight for them to believe you."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
His eyes burned into hers. "We fight to take Vanessa down. Piece by piece. Before she burns you alive."
Celia's heart thundered. He wasn't just shielding her anymore. He was choosing her side.
That night, the storm had passed, but the air was heavier than ever.
Celia lay awake replaying the tape, Beverly's memories tangling with her own thoughts. She wanted to laugh it off, to hide in sarcasm, but every time she closed her eyes, that voice echoed: "She'll regret being born."
Her chest tightened until it hurt.
A knock came at her door. Soft. Careful.
She wiped her eyes quickly. "If that's room service, I'm ordering extra pancakes."
Prince's voice came through, low. "You're not sleeping again."
She froze. "Do you ever… stop hovering?"
A pause. Then: "Not when you're breaking."
Her throat closed. She wanted to tell him she wasn't breaking, that she was fine, but the truth was lodged too deep.
So instead, she whispered into the dark: "Then don't leave."
The silence on the other side was long. Heavy. And then — a simple, steady answer:
"I won't."