Chapter 1
Chapter 1
The day Celestine Selwyn returned from Oceanview City to Portside was her third wedding anniversary.
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She’d come down with the flu before the trip, her cough persistent and rough. But it had been three months since she’d seen Chester Fordham, her husband, and their children, and she
insisted on making the journey home.
The Fordham family had always been locals in Portside. After the city’s reorganization, their business expanded to Oceanview, so the family had moved there–though the old manor still stood, firmly rooted in Portside.
When Celestine arrived at Fordham Manor, her phone lit up with a news alert: “Mr. Fordham Spares No Expense Throwing a Bonfire Party for Oscar Winner Joanna Sinclair.”
Celestine’s expression cooled.
The housekeeper, a woman from Oceanview, caught sight of the headline and rushed to comfort her. “Don’t take it to heart, ma’am. Portside Media loves to stir up nonsense. Sir is busy with work tonight.”
Celestine said nothing.
Before she’d returned, she’d gone out of her way to message Chester. That message now lay unread on her phone, not even a single word in reply.
She wasn’t the type to dwell on things, but sometimes she couldn’t help wondering: just how busy was a man who stood at the very top of Portside’s economic pyramid? Busy enough to ignore his own wife’s message?
She forced herself to stop thinking about it.
Slipping off her coat, Celestine headed to the children’s playroom to see her son and daughter.
Three months apart, and the twins had both grown so much.
She smiled, kneeling beside them as they played house–building little homes from sand, placing tiny figures inside. It was obvious at a glance who those little dolls were meant to be: the children’s parents.
Celestine decided to tease her daughter. “Sweetheart, who are these two?”
Her daughter didn’t even look up from her sandcastle. “Daddy and Miss Sinclair.”
“That’s not right,” her son piped up, shaking his head. “Miss Sinclair lives in my house. Mommy lives in yours.”
“But I want Miss Sinclair to be my mommy!” The girl pouted, lips trembling.
Celestine’s hand paused mid–reach as she gently rubbed her daughter’s pigtails. “Isn’t Mommy good enough?”
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“Of course you are. But Miss Sinclair and Daddy look better together.”
Her son chimed in without missing a beat. The little girl nodded earnestly.
Vain as ever, her daughter ducked away from Celestine’s hand, frowning. “And Mommy, you have the flu–you should stay away. Don’t mess up my hair. Miss Sinclair did these braids for me, and she’ll be upset if they get ruined.”
Celestine touched her own mask, watching her children excitedly discuss what kind of outfit to make for Miss Sinclair. Meanwhile, the tiny doll meant to be ‘Mommy‘ lay abandoned in a corner, forgotten.
Celestine’s heart seized with a piercing ache, her mouth turning as bitter as the realization clawing at her throat.
Miss Sinclair–the same Joanna Sinclair who was her husband Chester’s first love. The pair that Portside Media never tired of calling a “match made in heaven.”
For all these years of her secret marriage to Chester, it seemed Joanna was the only Mrs. Fordham anyone acknowledged.
She never imagined that after just a few months apart, even her own children would feel closer to Joanna than to her.
Celestine lowered her gaze, silent for a long time, until the housekeeper’s gentle prompt reminded her to head upstairs for a bath and some rest.
Just then, Chester’s secretary arrived. He paused when he saw Celestine, surprise flickering across his face.
“Mrs. Fordham, Mr. Fordham won’t be home tonight. He asked me to pick up the gift he prepared for Miss Sinclair.”
“All right,” Celestine replied quietly.
When the secretary left, the pain in her chest grew sharper.
Her husband had remembered a gift for another woman, but he hadn’t remembered their
anniversary.
She called Chester on video.
He answered almost immediately.
“What is it?”
He was in his private lounge–opulent, gleaming under crystal lights, radiating the kind of decadence Portside was known for.
Chester wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars, a glass of red wine in hand, lounging on the sofa.
There was nothing calculating or shrewd in his demeanor; his features were cool and
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aristocratic, his gaze as distant as winter frost.
He was the kind of man everyone admired from afar, the one no one could reach.
And Celestine had loved him, wholly and quietly, for six years.
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