CELESTE
The specialist's office was too bright.
Everything gleamed—white walls, white floors, white lights that buzzed overhead like angry insects. I sat in a chair that was supposed to be comfortable but felt like sitting on knives. Luna colored in the corner, humming to herself, completely unaware that my entire world was ending.
Dr. Beaumont adjusted his glasses and looked at me with eyes that had delivered bad news too many times. "Madame Moreau, the tests have come back."
My hands gripped the armrests. "And?"
He cleared his throat, opening a manila folder thick with papers covered in numbers and terms I already understood. My father had made sure I could read medical literature before I learned to ride a bike.
"Your daughter has what we call Progressive Degenerative Myelinopathy." He said each word slowly, carefully, like they might shatter if he spoke too fast.
The words hit me anyway. Crashed into my chest and exploded.
Progressive. Degenerative. Myelinopathy.
My brilliant mind—the mind my father had trained, had molded, had destroyed—raced through every medical journal I'd ever read. Ultra-rare. Maybe fifty cases worldwide. Terminal. The myelin sheath around the nerves breaking down, piece by piece, until…
"How long?" My voice didn't sound like mine.
Dr. Beaumont shifted in his seat. "Without treatment, eighteen months. Perhaps two years. The progression varies, but ultimately, the neurological damage becomes—"
"I know what it becomes." I cut him off, my nails digging into the leather armrests. "What are the treatment options?"
He hesitated. That hesitation told me everything.
"The standard treatments are palliative. We can manage symptoms, make her comfortable—"
"No." The word came out sharp as broken glass. "There has to be something else. Gene therapy. CRISPR. Something."
Luna looked up from her coloring. "Maman? Why are you angry?"
I forced my face into something that might pass for a smile. "I'm not angry, mon cœur. Keep coloring. Your butterfly is beautiful."
She smiled and went back to her crayons, and I wanted to scream.
Dr. Beaumont leaned forward, his voice dropping. "There is one option. Experimental. Very experimental."
My heart stopped, then started again, too fast. "Tell me."
"A gene therapy trial. VX-7. The early data is remarkable—truly remarkable. Three patients in the trial are showing significant improvement. Regeneration of myelin tissue. Reversal of symptoms." He paused, and I could see him choosing his words. "It's not approved yet. The trial is highly selective. But it's the only real hope for a condition like this."
"Where?" I was already standing. "Where is the trial?"
"Seoul." He said it quietly, like he knew what that word would do to me. "At Choi Pharmaceuticals."
The name hit me like a fist to the throat.
Choi Pharmaceuticals.
The room tilted. The bright lights blurred. I reached for the desk to steady myself, but my hand found only air.
"Madame Moreau, are you alright?" Dr. Beaumont stood, concerned.
"I'm fine." I wasn't fine. I would never be fine again. "Seoul. You're sure?"
"Yes. It's the primary trial site. Dr. Choi himself is overseeing the research. If you'd like, I can provide you with contact information—"
"No." The word came out too loud. Luna looked up again, her eyes wide. "No, thank you. I'll… I'll handle it myself."
I grabbed Luna's hand and pulled her toward the door.
"Maman, my picture—"
"We'll finish it at home."
The hallway was sterile and cold, but at least it wasn't bright. I leaned against the wall, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to do anything but fall apart.
Seoul. Choi Pharmaceuticals. Jae-won.
Luna tugged at my sleeve. "Maman, you're scaring me."
I knelt down and pulled her into my arms, holding her so tight she squeaked. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry. Everything's going to be okay."
"Promise?"
I couldn't promise. I couldn't lie to her face. So I just held her and said nothing.
That night, after Luna fell asleep, I sat in the dark apartment with my laptop. My hands shook as I opened files I'd sworn I would never open again. Encrypted drives buried under layers of security. Research data. Formulas. Notes in my father's handwriting that I'd stolen the night the lab burned.
The work he'd died protecting.
The work Jae-won had killed for.
I opened a secure messaging app I hadn't touched in three years. The cursor blinked at me, waiting. Mocking me.
I typed with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else.
It's Celeste. I have what you want. I need access to the VX-7 trial. I will trade.
I stared at the message for a long time. Once I sent it, there was no going back. No more running. No more hiding. I would be walking straight into the lion's den, offering myself up, offering everything.
For Luna.
Always for Luna.
I hit send.
The message disappeared into the encrypted void, and I closed the laptop. My hands were still shaking. My whole body was shaking.
– – –
AUTHOR
In Seoul, in a glass tower that touched the clouds, Jae-won Choi sat in a board meeting. Twenty executives around a table, discussing quarterly projections and market expansions. Numbers on screens. Money and power and all the things he'd built his empire on.
His phone buzzed.
He glanced at it, and the entire room seemed to feel the shift. The temperature dropped. His jaw tightened. His eyes—those dark, dangerous eyes—went cold.
The executives kept talking, oblivious.
Jae-won opened the encrypted message. Read it once. Twice. His thumb hovered over the screen.
Then he typed a single word.
Come.
He set the phone down and looked up at the room full of people who thought they knew him. Who thought they understood what he was capable of.
They had no idea.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. "We're done here."
They filed out, confused, and Jae-won stood alone at the window, looking out at the city he owned.
After three years of silence.
Three years of searching.
She was coming back to him.