Chapter 24 — A Match Made in Hell
The doorbell rang again, louder this time.
Celia's fingers twitched on the railing as she peered down from the top of the staircase.
The butler opened the door, and sunlight spilled into the mansion.
A woman stepped through — poised, composed, with hair that shimmered like polished bronze and eyes that scanned the room like she owned it.
"Dahlia?"
Her father's voice broke into something that almost sounded like joy.
He moved forward, arms wide, smiling in a way Celia hadn't seen in years.
"Ah, Miss Ward. You've grown into a fine young lady. You're the spitting image of your mother."
"And you're as charming as ever, Mr. Harlow," she replied, the corners of her lips curving. "Thank you for inviting me. It's been… a long time."
Her voice was soft and smooth — but Celia could hear the steel beneath it.
Beverly's memories stirred like wind through old papers.
Flashes of laughter. Summer afternoons. Two girls sneaking cookies from the kitchen. Dahlia's laughter — loud, fearless, the kind that echoed off the walls and made every bad day seem small.
She used to be light.
Until they took her away.
Until he sent her to boarding school.
Celia could still remember the day Dahlia left — a hug that lasted too long, promises whispered between tears.
"I'll come back," she had said. "And when I do, we'll be free."
But when she returned, she wasn't the same.
Her smile was perfect. Her words, rehearsed.
The laughter? Gone.
Now, standing in the same house where they used to play hide and seek, Dahlia didn't look like her friend anymore. She looked like someone's weapon.
⸻
"Come in, come in," Mr. Harlow said, leading her toward the sitting room. "You remember Beverly, don't you?"
Dahlia's gaze flicked up the stairs. "Of course."
Her smile was delicate — polite on the surface, but something in her eyes lingered.
Celia descended slowly, each step feeling heavier. "Welcome back, Dahlia."
"It's good to see you, Bev."
She tilted her head. "You've changed."
"So have you."
"Life does that," Dahlia murmured, eyes glinting, Especially when someone else decides what kind of life you're supposed to live
Mr. Harlow cleared his throat. "Now, I've called you both here for something important."
Of course he had. It was always important when he wanted control.
"I think," he said, turning to Dahlia, "it's time Beverly starts showing her face again. The rumors are bad for the family name."
"Agreed," Dahlia said smoothly, already slipping into the rhythm of his expectations. "That's why I've arranged a small appearance for her — the charity gala next week. Cameras, interviews, the works. A redemption moment."
Celia blinked. "You arranged it?"
Her father nodded. "She's been helping me manage a few things. She understands how reputation works."
Dahlia smiled. "You always were a little careless, Bev. I'm just here to make sure you don't drown in your own chaos."
Celia stiffened. "I didn't ask for your help."
"No," Dahlia said, rising gracefully from her seat, "but your father did."
Her father gave a slow approving smile. "Dahlia's practically family. You'll listen to her."
Celia's jaw clenched. "Family? Since when do you trust anyone but yourself?"
"When they earn it."
That shut her up.
⸻
Dahlia stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough for only Celia to hear.
"I know you don't like this," she said, her tone soft — almost sympathetic. "But this gala could save you, Bev. Don't make me your enemy."
Something about the way she said enemy didn't sound like a threat. It sounded like a promise.
"Why are you doing this?" Celia whispered.
Dahlia's expression flickered — just for a moment, just enough for Celia to see the girl she used to be. The one who'd dreamed of freedom and laughter.
Then it vanished.
"Because your father asked me to," she said quietly. "And when he asks, you don't say no."
Celia wanted to scream, to shake her, to ask what they'd done to her. But her father was watching, arms crossed, satisfied that his two favorite puppets were dancing to his tune.
So she smiled.
The same way Beverly used to smile when she was trying not to break.
"Fine," she said. "You win."
Dahlia's eyes softened. "No, darling. This isn't about winning."
She turned to leave, her perfume trailing behind her like smoke.
"It's about surviving."
And with that, she walked out — graceful, unreadable, unstoppable.
Celia stood frozen, watching her go.
Somewhere deep in her mind, Beverly's voice whispered, half-remembered and trembling:
"She never came back the same."