Chapter 25 — The Girl Who Came Back Wrong
The sound of Dahlia's heels lingered long after she left.
Each click echoed down the hallway like the slow ticking of a bomb.
Celia sat frozen on the velvet couch in the sitting room, her hands gripping the edge as though she could hold herself together that way. Her pulse wouldn't slow, no matter how many times she tried to breathe in and out like a normal person.
Beverly's father's voice still replayed in her head — deep, calm, disturbingly proud.
"That girl has poise. You should learn from her, Beverly. She knows her place."
Her place.
Celia almost laughed. If Beverly's father had even the slightest idea of what kind of monster he admired, he might've thought twice. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. Monsters always recognize their own.
She rubbed her temple, and that was when the first memory hit.
It wasn't hers.
It came like a flash flood — warmth, laughter, sunlight. Dahlia's voice, higher and carefree.
"Come on, Bev! You're too slow!"
Two girls sprinting barefoot through the rose garden, skirts hitched up, laughter echoing off the glass walls. Dahlia with a flower crown crooked on her head, Beverly chasing after her, promising revenge for the prank she'd just pulled.
Then the image flickered — Dahlia turning, smiling, her face bright and real.
Celia gasped, clutching the armrest as tears burned behind her eyes.
That wasn't the girl who stood before her today.
The one she'd seen earlier had been cold, deliberate. The sparkle was gone, replaced by precision — the kind of control you learn only when someone takes it from you.
"What happened to you?" Celia whispered into the empty room.
⸻
She moved to the window, staring at the gardens outside. The same ones Beverly used to play in.
Her heart tightened again — another memory. This time it wasn't a flash. It was slow, heavy, like watching a dream in reverse.
Dahlia's fifteenth birthday. The garden decorated with silver balloons, laughter, and the sound of music.
Beverly handing her a gift — a silver bracelet. "You're my favorite person in the whole world."
Dahlia grinning, then whispering something back: "You'll always be mine too."
And then…
The following week, the boarding school letter arrived.
Celia pressed her palm to the glass. The name of that school repeated itself in her mind, sharp and bitter.
When Dahlia came back two years later, the girl who had been her sister in everything but blood was gone.
Her laughter had been replaced by a polite smile. Her rebellion had been traded for obedience.
And her eyes… her eyes were empty.
⸻
The door creaked open slightly. The butler's voice came through softly.
"Miss, your father has gone to his study. He said you are to attend the gala tomorrow. Miss Ward will be accompanying you."
Celia turned. "Miss Ward?"
"Miss Dahlia Ward."
Of course.
She forced a tight smile. "Thank you, Harold. You can go."
As the door closed, Celia's mind raced. She didn't remember agreeing to that. Dahlia had arranged it for her — outsmarting her again, cornering her into a situation she couldn't refuse.
A gala, in front of everyone.
Beverly's father adored Dahlia, and if Celia refused, it would look suspicious — ungrateful, defiant.
She could almost hear his disappointment already.
She sank back into the chair, muttering, "You clever witch."
⸻
An hour later, she noticed the small gift box sitting on her vanity. She hadn't seen it before.
A silver box, tied with a neat ribbon.
She opened it cautiously. Inside lay a pair of diamond earrings — stunning, sharp, and heavy — and a folded card.
You'll need these for tomorrow.
They belonged to my mother.
A woman should never go to war unarmed.
— Dahlia
Celia stared at the note, her chest tightening.
Another memory hit her — Beverly at twelve, sneaking into Dahlia's room, the two girls trying on Dahlia's mother's earrings.
"You look so pretty!" Beverly had giggled.
"You think?" Dahlia twirled, making the earrings sparkle. "Then I'll wear them when I marry a prince."
"What if you don't?"
"Then I'll marry myself."
Both of them had laughed until Beverly's father appeared at the door. His expression had been ice-cold.
"Take those off, Beverly. They're not for you."
She had obeyed. Dahlia hadn't.
That defiance — that spark — was gone now.
Celia closed the box gently, whispering, "You really did go to war, didn't you?"
⸻
The house grew quieter as night fell. Rain began tapping against the windows.
Celia sat at her dressing table, staring into the mirror. Her reflection looked tired, haunted. Not Celia. Not Beverly. Something in between.
Behind her reflection, faint and shifting, she thought she saw two figures — one of Beverly, calm and sad, and another of Dahlia, smiling brightly the way she once had.
"Why did you come back?" Celia murmured.
No answer. Only the rain.
The chandelier light flickered, and she swore she heard Beverly's voice faintly inside her head:
She wasn't supposed to come back like this.
Celia swallowed hard. "Then I'll make sure she doesn't stay like this."
The phone buzzed beside her — a message from Prince.
Prince: I heard about the gala. You're going?
Celia: Do I have a choice?
Prince: You always have a choice.
Celia: Not in this house.
She hesitated, then added:
Celia: I'll see you there.
She didn't know why she sent that last part. Maybe part of her wanted him to see what kind of hell she was standing in.
Maybe part of her wanted someone to look at her and see her, not Beverly.
⸻
Lightning flashed across the sky.
She stood, pulling the curtains shut. As she turned away, she caught one last glimpse of herself in the mirror — and for just a moment, Beverly smiled back at her, the same quiet, knowing smile from before.
But this time, behind Beverly's reflection stood someone else — Dahlia, half-shrouded in shadow, her eyes glowing faintly.
Celia blinked, and both were gone.
The room felt colder.
She whispered to herself,
"If this is a game, Dahlia… I promise you, you're not the only one who knows how to play."
Outside, the rain turned to thunder.
Tomorrow was the gala.
And Celia — no, Beverly — would walk straight into the lion's den wearing her old best friend's armor.