Chapter 59: Just Being Dramatic, Right?
I paced the living room with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, jaw tight enough to crack. My head was still ringing from the argument, every word of hers echoing like she hadn’t left an hour ago.
Celestia. Always Celestia.
She had to be the center of every storm. The one who got the last word, the one who always knew better. If I said up, she’d argue down—not because she truly believed it, but because in her head she couldn’t ever be wrong. And the dramatics—God, the dramatics.
I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to the empty room. "Why do I even put up with this? Why do I let her get under my skin every damn time?"
It wasn’t like she’d backed down. No, she never did. Even when she walked out with Duchess cradled in her arms, even when her voice was softer, she was still winning. She always had to have the upper hand. I was tired. Tired of being the bad guy in every argument, tired of feeling like I was the one who had to apologize just to keep the peace.
And maybe I was angrier because a part of me knew she had a point. But admitting that? Forget it.
I rubbed a hand down my face and collapsed onto the couch, the silence pressing in on me. "She thinks she’s always right," I muttered. "Always. And maybe she is, but... Jesus, it’s exhausting."
My phone buzzed against the table, snapping me out of the spiral. I glanced down at the screen.
Avery Brooke Prescott.
Of course. Perfect timing.
For a second, I considered letting it ring out. But the thought of her name lighting up my phone while I sat here stewing made me swipe to answer before I thought twice.
"Hey," her voice came, soft, hesitant, almost guilty. "Um... I hope I’m not bothering you. I just... I wanted to apologize."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Apologize for what?"
"For earlier," she said, rushing the words like she’d been rehearsing them. "In class. The way your girlfriend—uh, Celestia—spoke to me. I just... I feel like I must’ve overstepped. I didn’t mean to cause tension between you two."
I sat back, staring at the ceiling. She sounded so damn sincere, her voice carrying that nervous edge like she hated even bringing it up. And it worked—it made me feel like an ass for being frustrated at all.
"You didn’t do anything wrong," I said after a beat. "Celestia’s just... she can be intense."
Avery let out a breath, a soft laugh, the kind that made it sound like she was trying to brush things off. "Yeah, I noticed. Look, it’s okay if you think tutoring me is too much trouble. I wouldn’t want to make things harder for you."
That little twist in my gut? Guilt. Yeah, she landed it perfectly.
"It’s not—" I stopped myself, then sighed. "It’s not about that. Halifax just... teaches like we’re all supposed to be geniuses already. I get why you’re struggling."
"Exactly!" she said quickly, as if grateful I’d given her the opening. "It’s like he’s speaking another language, and everyone else is nodding along while I’m lost in the dust. You don’t know how much it means that you even agreed to help, Kai. But really, if it’s not possible anymore, I’ll completely understand. I wouldn’t want you to—"
I cut in before she could finish. "I said I’ll help. It’s fine."
There was a pause, just long enough to let my words hang, before she spoke again—softer, careful. "Even if it’s just... thirty minutes a day? Or thirty minutes twice a week? I’d be okay with that. Anything, really. I’ll work around your schedule."
I leaned my head back against the couch, staring at the wall like it might give me an answer. She made it sound so reasonable, so harmless. Just thirty minutes. Just twice a week. Just helping someone new catch up.
But the way she said it—sweet, grateful, a little desperate—it tugged at something. Something that made me nod even though she couldn’t see me.
"Alright," I said finally. "We’ll figure something out."
Her relief came through the line instantly, bright and warm. "Thank you, Kai. Really. I’ll do my best not to take up too much of your time."
When the call ended, I set the phone down slowly, my stomach still knotted.
Because if Celestia ever found out about this call—the way Avery framed it like she was helpless and I was her only lifeline—no amount of guilt would save me.
---
Across town, Avery lowered her phone, the sweetness slipping from her face like a mask. She leaned back in her chair, smirk tugging at her lips.
"Too easy," she whispered to herself, twirling the phone idly between her fingers. "All it takes is a little damsel act, and he already believes me. Poor Celestia... so used to being the only one in control. What happens when her perfect boyfriend starts thinking she’s the problem?"
She laughed under her breath, low and quiet. "Step one—get him to feel guilty. The rest... he’ll hand over himself."
---
After the call, I checked my phone to see if Val had called or texted. Nothing.
I just took it as she was still mad at me. Typical Celestia—she could hold a grudge like it was an Olympic sport. I didn’t know that miles away, at the Moreau family mansion, it wasn’t a grudge she was nursing. It was silence.
The kind of silence that clung to the walls. The kind of silence that pressed down heavier because the Moreau house was too big, too empty when nobody else was home. Her dad and mom were away again—always away, buried in work or flying to some gala halfway across the world. And Lucien? The older brother who was supposed to be the one on her side when I wasn’t? He was probably at another party, a glass in his hand and two girls hanging off his arm, too careless to notice his little sister needed him.
So it was just her. Her, and Duchess.
Celestia sat alone in her room, sprawled across that ridiculous princess-sized bed with Duchess curled near her feet like she owned the place. Celestia reached out and stroked the cat absentmindedly, mumbling to herself, because that’s what she did when no one was around. She grumbled under her breath about me—about how dense I was. How I could spend hours solving equations or staring at Halifax’s nightmare textbook but couldn’t figure out something that was right in front of my face.
"He’s so dense. So dense. How does he not see it? Is he blind, or just plain stupid?" Her words dripped frustration, but her voice cracked in places, the way it always did when she was more hurt than angry.
She whispered Avery’s name with venom, her voice sharp and tight, rolling her eyes like the thought of her left a bad taste in her mouth. She huffed at Duchess like the cat was her audience, expecting her to agree.
Her hand snatched her phone. She opened it then checked.
My last seen? Offline.
No green dot, no "online" tag, nothing. Just silence.
Her brows knitted. She glared at the screen before tossing it onto the bed like it had personally betrayed her. Then she yanked the blanket over herself, dramatic and stubborn, like she didn’t care. Like she was perfectly fine not talking to me.
But she couldn’t leave it there.
One beat then two and—
Her hand shot out again. She grabbed the phone, thumbed the screen open, and hit dial.
And right then, it rang busy.
Because I was still on the phone. With Avery.
She didn’t know that. She just sat there, blinking at the screen, whispering to herself, "Did he block me? He wouldn’t." She said it like the words might convince her. Like maybe if she spoke it out loud, it would be true.
She tried again. Still busy.
That’s when she threw it back down, forcing out a brittle little laugh, muttering, "Whatever. I don’t care." Saying it sharp, to no one. Saying it to convince herself.
But it didn’t stick.
Because the next thing she did was lean forward, reaching for Duchess—except cats were like girls. Unpredictable. And Duchess... Duchess slipped away. A flick of the tail, a twist of the body, and gone.
Out the door.
And Celestia? She watched her go with wide, glassy eyes. The kind that burned red at the edges because she refused to blink them clear. Her lips trembled just enough to make the words shake when she whispered, soft, almost broken, "Not you too..."
And then she curled into herself, pulling her knees tight to her chest, wrapping her arms around them like she’s holding herself together, burying her face in the blanket that still smelled faintly like her perfume, and sobbing—soft, muffled, aching sobs into a room too empty to hold them."
No, I didn’t see it. I didn’t hear it.
All I knew was that she hadn’t called.
And so I sat there, stubborn, telling myself she was just being dramatic again. While somewhere across the city, Celestia Valentina Moreau—my hurricane of a girl—wasn’t angry at all.
She was breaking.
---
To be continued...