Rhea watched Celeste from across the living room—curled up on the couch, nursing a hangover, face blotchy from crying, still pretending everything could somehow go back to normal.
It wouldn't.
Leon had left. Damien was hovering too close. The family was watching. And Celeste? She was cracking.
Rhea's phone buzzed beside her. She ignored it.
Her eyes narrowed.
Celeste didn't even know who she was. Not really. Not what she was tangled in. She thought Rhea was her friend. Her savior.
But Rhea hadn't come to save her.
She came to eat.
And now the meal was spoiling.
If Celeste lost her place—if Leon exposed her, or the truth slipped—Rhea would be left with nothing. No reward. No security. No cut.
So she pulled out her phone, tapped in a number she had saved but never used.
Maureen.
She was the only person Rhea was sure would want to hear what she had to say. Because Maureen didn't just dislike Celeste. She hated her. Enough to burn the truth into the ground.
The call rang twice before a voice answered.
"What do you want?" Maureen snapped.
Rhea smiled coldly. "You don't know me. But I know something about Celeste… something you're going to want to hear."
A pause.
"Who is this?"
Rhea leaned back, her voice soft, dangerous. "Let's just say… I've been living in her house. And I know for a fact she's not who she says she is."