CELESTE POV
They told me about Dad's death through a slot in my jail cell door.
"Antonio Armitage was found dead in his office this morning. Apparent suicide. You have twenty-four hours of compassionate leave to attend the funeral."
The guard's voice was flat, bored, like he was telling me the weather report instead of destroying what was left of my world.
I didn't cry. I couldn't. The words wouldn't stick in my head. They kept sliding off, impossible and wrong.
"No," I said. "That's a mistake. My father wouldn't—he would never—"
But the guard was already walking away, his footsteps echoing down the concrete hallway.
Dad was dead.
And they were calling it suicide.
The funeral home smelled like flowers and lies.
I stood in the back, handcuffed and flanked by two officers who watched me like I might try to flee. As if I had anywhere to run. As if I had anything left to run to.
At the front of the room, Diane sobbed loudly into a black handkerchief. Miranda stood beside her, head bowed, the perfect picture of a heartbroken daughter. My stomach twisted with rage so sharp I thought I might vomit.
They'd killed him. I knew it with every cell in my body. Dad wouldn't leave me. He wouldn't give up. Not when I needed him most.
"Viewing time," one of the cops muttered, nudging me forward.
I walked toward the box on legs that didn't feel like mine. Every step was pain. Every breath hurt.
And then I saw him.
Dad looked small in the silk-lined box. That's what shocked me most—how small he seemed. Antonio Armitage had always been larger than life to me. Brilliant. Strong. Unbreakable.
Now he was just... gone.
I leaned down, close enough that the cops couldn't hear, and whispered against the cold air near his ear. "I know you didn't leave me, Daddy. I know you didn't write that suicide note. I'm going to find out who did this. I promise."
"How touching."
I jerked upright to find Miranda standing beside me, her fake sadness replaced by something sharp and satisfied.
"You shouldn't be here," I said through tight teeth. "You should be in jail. You and your mother killed him."
"Prove it." Her smile was poison-sweet. "Oh wait—you can't. Because you're the thief, remember? The thief. The failure who broke her father's heart so badly he couldn't live with the shame."
I went for her. I didn't plan it, didn't think. Pure rage took over.
The cops grabbed me before I made contact, yanking me backward so hard my shoulders screamed in protest.
"Assault!" Miranda shrieked, stumbling backward dramatically even though I hadn't touched her. "She tried to hit me! At our father's funeral!"
"That's enough," the older cop growled in my ear. "One more explosion and we take you back to your cell. Understand?"
I knew that I was trapped. That they'd won. That even my sadness wasn't allowed to be real.
After the service, a lawyer I'd never met approached with a briefcase and a look that said he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Miss Armitage, I need you to sign these documents."
"What documents?"
He opened the briefcase, showing stacks of papers. "Your father's bills. The embezzlement investigation showed that Armitage Pharmaceuticals was hiding significant financial losses. As the accused party and previous vice president, you're being held personally liable."
The world turned sideways. "How much?"
"Twelve million dollars."
I actually laughed. It came out high and broken, the sound of something inside me snapping. "I don't have twelve million dollars. I don't have twelve dollars. They froze all my accounts."
"I'm aware." The lawyer didn't look at me, just kept moving papers. "Your flat has been seized. Your car. Your personal things. Everything's being liquidated to cover half payment. The leftover debt..." He paused, and something flickered across his face. Pity, maybe. Or disgust. "There are organizations that handle situations like this."
"What kind of organizations?"
But he was already walking away, leaving the papers on the chair beside me like they were infected.
I looked down at the papers. Through the legal language, one word jumped out: DEBT TRANSFERRED TO CRIMSON ROSE COLLECTIONS.
The name meant nothing to me then.
Later, I'd learn it meant slavery.
I tried calling my best friend Emma that night from the jail's phone line. We'd been inseparable since college. She'd been maid of honor at the wedding I'd planned before everything fell apart. Surely she'd believe me. Surely someone would.
The call went to voicemail.
I tried Sarah next. Then Michael. Then every other person I'd considered family.
No one answered.
On the seventh try, Emma finally picked up.
"Emma, thank God. I need help. I need someone who believes—"
"Don't call me again, Celeste."
Her voice was ice. Foreign. Nothing like the warm friend I'd known for eight years.
"What? Emma, it's me. I didn't do what they're saying. I was framed—"
"I know what you did." Each word hit like a physical blow. "The news showed the evidence. The bank records. You stole from your own father, and now he's dead because of you. I can't be connected with someone like that. It'll ruin my job, my reputation. I'm sorry, but we're done."
The line went dead.
I stood there holding the phone, listening to the dial tone, and finally understood the full scope of my destruction.
They hadn't just taken my company, my money, my life.
They'd taken my father. My name. My entire life.
I was nobody now. Less than nobody.
A criminal. A loser. A ghost.
Back in my cell, I lay on the thin cushion and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow they'd sentence me. The trial had been a joke—all that manufactured proof, Diane and Miranda's tearful testimonies, the board members who swore I'd been acting suspicious.
I had no response. No lawyer who believed me. No future.
Dad was gone. Everything was gone.
Maybe I should just give up. Maybe that would be easy.
I was almost asleep when I heard it—a sound that didn't fit. Footsteps stopping outside my cell. Not the guards' heavy boots. Something softer.
A package slid under the door.
I sat up, heart suddenly racing. No one sent letters to people in jail at midnight.
With shaking hands, I picked it up and pulled out a single piece of paper.
The message was typed, anonymous:
Your father didn't kill himself. He was killed. The suicide note was faked. I have proof. But if you want it, you'll need to escape what's coming next. The Crimson Rose sale is in three weeks. Dante Morelli will be there. Make him buy you. It's the only way you'll ever get close enough to learn the truth about who really killed your family.
Trust no one. Especially not the ones who claim to be helping you.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the paper.
Someone knew. Someone had proof Dad was killed.
And they wanted me to let myself be sold to a man whose name I'd seen once—on the buyout papers that stole my father's company.
The same man who might have killed him.
I read the letter again, looking for any hint of who sent it, any clue about why they'd help me.
Nothing. Just those impossible directions and a single promise: The truth is closer than you think. And more dangerous than you can imagine.
I pressed my back against the cold cell wall, mind racing.
In three weeks, I'd be sold like property to thieves and monsters.
And somehow, I had to make sure the right monster bought me.
Because if this letter was real, my father's killer was still out there.
And I was going to find them.
Even if it killed me too.