Chapter Twenty-One — The Summons
The message came just before dawn.
From: Mr. Blackwell's secretary
"Your father requests your presence. Today. 8 AM. No excuses."
Celia stared at the screen, her chest tightening. The name "Mr. Blackwell" shouldn't have meant anything to her — she wasn't Beverly. But her body had other ideas.
Her palms grew clammy. Her breathing quickened. Every nerve screamed don't go.
"Relax," she whispered to herself, pacing her apartment. "He's just a man. He's not your father. You're not Beverly."
But her reflection disagreed. Her reflection looked terrified.
By 8 AM, she stood outside the Blackwell mansion.
The tall iron gates loomed over her, opening with a slow mechanical hiss, like a creature exhaling. The guards nodded her through.
Her heels clicked on marble as she entered the house — no warmth, no life. Just echoes and the faint scent of cedar polish.
Her steps faltered near the grand staircase, where a memory she didn't own flickered behind her eyes — Beverly's hand trembling, her cheek red from a slap, her breath caught in her throat.
She gripped the railing to steady herself.
A maid passed by, avoiding her gaze. Another whispered something under her breath — something that sounded suspiciously like "poor thing."
Celia forced her chin up and kept walking.
Mr. Blackwell's office looked exactly like she imagined:
Dark mahogany desk. Walls lined with leather-bound books no one had touched in years.
And behind it sat the man himself — sharp suit, graying hair, and eyes so cold they could freeze the air.
"Beverly," he said, not looking up from his papers.
Celia swallowed. "Good morning, Father."
Her voice sounded small. Foreign.
"You've been quite busy," he said. "Your little online stunt. The interviews. The nonsense about redemption. Care to explain what exactly you think you're doing?"
Celia clenched her fists. "I'm just—trying to live normally."
He finally looked at her. "Normal? You don't get to be normal. Not after what you did."
Her heart stuttered. What you did.
She didn't know what he meant. But Beverly did.
Her stomach twisted, the room spinning as memories — flashes of hospital lights, sobbing, blood-stained sheets — surged through her mind.
"I didn't—" Celia gasped, but her throat closed. She was shaking now, trembling like the terrified girl Beverly once was.
He smirked, satisfied by her silence. "That's what I thought. Keep your head down, Beverly. Don't make me regret keeping you alive."
The meeting ended as abruptly as it began.
Celia stumbled out, breath ragged, vision blurry. The sunlight outside felt wrong — too bright, too alive.
She found herself leaning against the fountain in the courtyard, trying to breathe. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
And then, her phone buzzed.
A new headline flashed on the screen.
Breaking: Vanessa exposes Beverly Blackwell's secret past — "She was pregnant!"
Celia froze.
The article was everywhere — screenshots, photos, gossip threads.
And in the middle of it all was one sentence that made her blood run cold:
"Sources claim the father is none other than Prince D'Amour."
Celia's knees gave out. She sank onto the fountain's edge, shaking her head in disbelief.
Prince? That couldn't be true. He didn't even know Beverly that way… right?
Her phone slipped from her fingers as another wave of pain tore through her chest — deep, searing, not physical but emotional.
And this time, it wasn't hers.
It was Beverly's.
Memories crashed into her like a storm: Beverly crying in the dark, clutching her stomach.
Prince's voice — distant, soft, unaware.
Her father's disgusted whisper: "You've shamed this family."
The sharp smell of antiseptic. The sound of a heartbeat that never came.
Celia screamed.
And when she opened her eyes, she wasn't alone.
Beverly stood before her.
Her hair flowed like ink, her eyes hollow but gentle.
She looked exactly like Celia — only softer, sadder, heavier with grief that never left.
"Why now?" Celia whispered. "Why are you here?"
Beverly's voice was calm. "Because you needed to remember."
She stepped closer.
And with that touch — a single brush of fingers against Celia's cheek — the world shifted.
Celia saw everything.
Every bruise Beverly hid. Every tear she swallowed. Every lie she told herself to survive.
And then, she saw the baby.
Tiny. Fragile. Gone too soon.
Beverly smiled sadly. "You have my life now. My pain. My strength. Make it mean something."
Then, like smoke, she faded — her presence melting into Celia's skin.
The fear, the sorrow, the rage — all of it became one heartbeat. Hers.
By the time Prince found her, she was sitting by the fountain, soaked by the spray, staring at the sky.
"Beverly " he called softly.
She turned her head slowly, her eyes distant.
He frowned
"I was pregnant."
His expression froze.
"You—what?"
He didn't know, she murmured, half to herself ,Of course you didn't.
Then she smiled — a small, tired, heartbreaking smile. "You never do."