Thorns Grow After Betrayal (Celeste and Chester) novel Chapter 38

Chester had long since lost count of how many times he'd set foot in the hospital lately.

"The back of your wife's head hit the ground. She was lucky—shards of glass scraped across her eyelid. If they'd cut just a little deeper, she'd have lost her left eye entirely."

A doctor stood in the hallway, explaining Celestine's injuries to Chester.

Chester's eyes were dark, his face unreadable.

Celestine's eyes had always been her most striking feature—captivating without being garish, sometimes sparkling with innocence, the kind of gaze you never quite forgot.

And now, that foolish woman had risked everything for a painting.

Was it worth it?

When Joanna finished filming that afternoon, she heard the news about Celestine's accident.

Celia and Raymond had come to her, holding hands and close to tears, finally confessing the real reason their mother had lost consciousness.

When Joanna heard the full story, she could barely keep the delight off her face.

Oh, Celestine, she thought, what a pair of children you've raised.

Putting on her best strict-adult face, Joanna said, "Celia, Ray, I can't cover for you this time. What you did was wrong—there's no way around it."

Celia buried her face in Joanna's arms, sobbing. "Miss Sinclair, we didn't mean for this to happen! We just knew how much you loved that painting, so we tried to stop Mom from taking it… we didn't know it'd turn out like this…"

Joanna's expression flickered briefly with irritation, but mostly she felt relief. Idiots, she thought—they nearly dragged me down with them.

She'd clawed her way up to where she was now and wasn't about to let anything ruin it.

"Don't be scared. Listen to me—go back to Portside and find your great-grandfather," Joanna whispered, gently steering the two children toward a solution.

…

Celestine lay unconscious for three days and nights.

When she finally opened her eyes, the harsh glare of the overhead lights made her squint.

A ring of people stood around her bed—men, women, young and old.

At their head was Alistair, hair white as snow, dressed in a navy suit. In his sixties, he still had a commanding presence, his gaze sharp and clear.

When he saw her awake, his stern face softened.

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