Maureen stared at her phone like it had just spoken a foreign language.
The girl's voice on the other end was low, calm—almost smug.
She said Celeste wasn't who she claimed to be.
She said she knew things.
"What kind of joke is this?" Maureen finally said, scoffing, even as her pulse jumped. "You expect me to believe some random girl calling me knows anything real about Celeste?"
"I expected you to hang up," the voice said. "But you didn't."
Maureen bit the inside of her cheek. She hated being predictable.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who saved her life," the voice replied. "And someone she's dragging down with her. You can call me Rhea."
Maureen stood from her bed, pacing now. "So what exactly are you saying? That she's… what, a fraud?"
"She's not Celeste," Rhea said plainly. "She doesn't even remember who she really is. I found her. I gave her that name. And now she's falling apart, and if she crashes, I go with her."
Silence stretched between them.
Maureen's mind spun. The pieces—the strange way Celeste reappeared, the sudden memory loss, the weird tension around her identity—she had felt something was off. But this?
This was worse.
And delicious.
"You're lying," Maureen said, but it sounded weak. She wanted it to be true.
"I'm not. And I can prove it."
Rhea's voice sharpened.
"But I'm not giving you anything for free. You hate her—I know that. You want her gone. Me too. But if I hand you this, you're going to help me make something out of it."
Maureen raised a brow. "You want money?"
"I want safety. Security. Whatever you get from this—status, revenge, chaos—I want a cut."
Maureen gave a slow, poisonous smile. "You're nastier than you sound."
"I learned from the best."
Maureen paused. Then, slowly:
"Alright. Let's talk."