The living room smelled like fresh citrus and books. Warm music played low in the background, the kind you barely noticed until it stopped. A few guests lingered around the center table, laughing softly over wine and tiny plates of dessert.
Celeste stood near the balcony, wrapped in cream-colored linen, her laughter bright and easy. The room felt like hers again—even if most of it still felt like a dream she hadn't woken up from.
"Maureen!" someone called from the door. "She's here!"
The door opened.
Maureen swept in like a breeze—perfectly styled, lightly flushed, holding a bottle of wine in one hand, and in the other… a red velvet box tied with gold string.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, smiling. "Parking was a nightmare."
Celeste turned to her with a warm grin. "You came!"
"Of course I came." Maureen leaned in, hugging her tightly. "I brought your favorite."
She lifted the box. "Mini raspberry cakes. Just like the ones we always used to get from Lune's."
Celeste blinked down at them, a flicker of confusion flashing in her eyes. Favorite?
She covered it quickly with a smile, lifting one from the box. "Oh my God… did I used to love these?"
Maureen's laugh was light. "You were obsessed."
Celeste nodded slowly, almost convincing herself. "Well… they look amazing. I feel like I've missed them."
She took a bite and smiled faintly, even as the taste brought no memory—just sweetness on her tongue and a quiet ache in her chest.
Maureen's gaze never left her.
"That's okay," she said gently. "You'll remember eventually."
But her smile was too smooth.
Too certain.
Because Maureen wasn't offering cake.
She was offering control—one sweet lie at a time.
Celeste moved through the room with practiced grace, even if Maureen could see the cracks—how her eyes sometimes lingered too long on unfamiliar faces, how she hesitated before laughing at shared stories she didn't recall.
She was pretending.
And she was doing it well.
But Maureen knew.
Maureen always knew.
She leaned back against the couch, wine glass in hand, watching as Celeste smiled politely at a joke she clearly didn't get.
"She doesn't even remember who she used to be," Maureen thought, her lips curling ever so slightly. "But I do. I remember everything."
She remembered the envy. The way Celeste used to glide into rooms like she owned them. The way people adored her. The way her parents lit up around her. And the way that light dimmed when Celeste vanished—and how it turned, eventually, toward Maureen.
The gallery internship. The trips. The quiet dinners with Celeste's mom, where Maureen played the grieving friend and soaked in every drop of sympathy.
She remembered the day Celeste returned.
And how everything began slipping away again.
"She's not taking it all back," Maureen thought darkly. "Not without a fight."
She sipped her wine and smiled across the room—soft, warm, gentle.
Celeste waved.
And Maureen raised her glass in return.
Behind the glass, her eyes stayed ice cold.