Whispers of Ruin

Celeste's POV

The hospital lights never slept.

Even at dusk, when the sky outside faded into a watercolor of storm-gray and bruised gold, the halls of Rosewood Medical remained sterile and humming too bright, too cold. Machines beeped steadily like artificial heartbeats. Shoes squeaked softly down polished floors. Lives shifted course beneath the flick of fluorescent bulbs.

Dr. Celeste Araya stood motionless outside the ICU, her back against the glass, scrubs wrinkled, spine aching, her surgical mask dangling beneath her chin. She'd been on her feet for nine hours. The ache in her shoulders was sharp. The pressure on her fingers lingered like ghosts of the instruments she'd wielded.

But the boy was alive.

And for now, that was enough.

Inside the glass room, he lay still beneath pale sheets twelve years old, tiny for his age, skin nearly translucent, chest rising shallowly beneath wires and blinking monitors. A congenital defect. A risky procedure. A miracle, some would call it. But Celeste didn't believe in miracles not anymore. Only risks and consequences. Skill and chance. Precision and failure.

Her hands had led the team. Her gamble had won. The child breathed.

And yet, something inside her stayed knotted.

Every patient reminded her of the one she would never meet the boy whose heart beat inside her own chest.

She pressed her palm to her sternum, feeling the rhythm that didn't belong to her. A stolen cadence. A gift she never asked for, received in silence, wrapped in blood.

She'd been seventeen, barely out of girlhood. Dying. Her own heart failing with a quiet cruelty that offered no warning and no mercy. Then suddenly hope. A donor match. A flight. A room full of doctors. A second chance.

But it had come too easily. Too quietly. No waiting list. No explanation. Only whispers and a signed form from her father that said, We did what we had to.

She'd never found out who the donor was.

Only that someone somewhere died so she could live.

Years later, she'd started asking questions. Medical records sealed. Paper trails gone cold. Her father's answer remained the same: Some things are better left buried, Celeste.

So she buried it. Buried it beneath years of studying, of late-night shifts and quiet victories in the operating room. But she never stopped feeling it the heart inside her that wasn't hers. The guilt she wore beneath her skin.

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her coat, snapping her out of the memory.

Gallery opening - 8:00 PM

Attire: Black. Wine optional. Sanity required.

Luna

Celeste smiled despite herself. Leave it to Luna to send sarcasm with event invites. She'd begged her to come, said it was "a cultural requirement for burnout doctors." Celeste had promised she'd try, but after the surgery, all she wanted was real food, a hot shower, and to sleep without dreaming.

Still... maybe the hospital could spare her for one night.

The gallery downtown pulsed with light and curated chaos. The ceiling soared high above her, industrial beams painted black, with gold pendant lights casting pools of warmth over cold concrete floors. Jazz music played softly under the gentle hum of conversation. Wine glasses clinked like whispered secrets.

Celeste entered quietly, dressed in a black silk slip dress that fell to her calves and a wool coat that hung open at the collar. Her hair was pulled into a low knot, her lips stained a muted red. She looked the part of someone who belonged graceful, composed. But she felt like she was still trailing hospital air behind her.

She made her way toward the back of the room, pausing in front of a canvas that nearly stole her breath. A heart, fractured in two, with threads of crimson woven across the break like crude stitches. Jagged. Angry. Beautiful.

A small plaque beneath it read: Inheritance.

"Fitting, isn't it?" a voice said to her left, low and calm. "A heart torn apart. Passed down whether you want it or not."

She turned.

He was tall, broad-shouldered under a dark jacket. His eyes were deep brown, almost gold near the edges. His hair curled slightly where it met his collar, and there was something about the way he stood like he was used to hiding in plain sight.

There was no drink in his hand. No companion nearby. Just him, staring at the same painting.

Celeste tilted her head, cautious. "You a collector or a philosopher?"

He smiled. Not the smile of a man trying to impress. It barely reached his eyes. "Neither. Just someone who appreciates broken things."

There was something oddly familiar about his presence. Not in the way of memory but recognition, as if he knew her already.

"I'm Celeste," she offered, shifting her weight, extending her hand. He took it, his grip firm, warm.

"Rafe," he replied. Then added, almost as an afterthought, "Nice to meet you, Doctor."

She blinked. "I didn't say I was a doctor."

His lips quirked like he'd been waiting for her to notice. "You didn't have to. Your posture, the hands, the shoes. The exhaustion behind the eyes. You're either a surgeon or a mother of three."

Celeste gave a small laugh, caught between flattery and suspicion. "Surgical," she said dryly. "In more ways than one."

Before she could press him further, someone from across the room called her name Luna, waving wildly near the bar. She gave an apologetic smile and turned to respond. When she turned back, Rafe was gone. No goodbye. No card. Nothing.

Outside, beneath the soft orange glow of a streetlamp, Rafe Vassal stood still, watching the gallery window from a safe distance. Behind the glass, Celeste moved with grace, laughing at something her friend said. She was glowing in the dim light, beautiful in the effortless way some people were born to be.

But that wasn't what caught in his chest.

It was the fact that she looked tired. Not spoiled. Not cold. Tired. Haunted.

You don't get to look haunted, he thought, his jaw locking.

Not when you lived because my brother didn't.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, already knowing who it was from.

From: A. A

Message: Found it. Transplant override. Pulled by Araya Sr. Political clearance. Proof coming soon.

Rafe exhaled sharply. The name Araya twisted in his chest like a knife. His eyes burned. Elias's voice echoed in the back of his mind, laughing, stubborn, full of plans. His younger brother had been next in line. Top of the transplant list. He was supposed to live.

But the list hadn't mattered. Not when the Araya family had power.

Rafe lit a cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs, not because he needed it but because it reminded him he was still breathing. Something Elias never got to do again.

This was only the beginning.

Everything he'd rehearsed, every move he'd perfected it was finally in motion. He'd studied her life, her routines, her circle. He knew where she volunteered, what time she left work, how she drank her coffee. Every smile. Every public speech. Every whisper of her guilt that she tried so hard to bury.

He would be the one to pull it all into the light.

"She thinks she can pretend," he murmured under his breath, flicking the ash to the ground. "Let's see what you're really made of, Celeste Araya."

And with that, Rafe disappeared into the shadows his plan finally alive and breathing.

Just like her.