Whispers of the Winterbourne Secrets

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

As early fall settled in, a discernible chill lingered in the air. Celeste Winterbourne hugged herself tightly as she stood at the entrance of The Cliffside Manor, her gaze fixed on the black Maybach pulling away. The vehicle carrying Julian Moonshadow faded into the haze of misty rain, and the smile that had graced her features slipped away, replaced by a sigh of resignation. She rubbed her arms for warmth and turned back inside.
“Did we manage to get through to Julian Moonshadow?” she inquired of Uncle Henry as she crossed the threshold, her bright, clear eyes scanning the man in his nearly fifty-year-old suit following closely behind her.
“Mr. Willow should be in the air by now, given the time of day,” he answered respectfully, inclining his head slightly.
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“Of course, Lady Margaret Donovan. I’ll prepare something right away,” Uncle Henry replied with a kind smile.
Celeste grabbed her phone from the coffee table, opened the news app, and was immediately hit with the headline: “SHOCKING! Julian Moonshadow’s Stunning Revelation: Married? Who is His New Bride, Agatha?” She rolled her eyes; it had barely been a month since the first sensational news broke, yet it seemed they were rehashing the same tired twists on the story daily.
She was thoroughly bored of it all. Could they at least come up with some fresh news?
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And Celeste, as the unexpected bride, was finding it hard to cope with the whirlwind of media attention, feeling painted as the villain in this narrative rather than the lured flower who had merely followed Julian's lead.
Time dripped away like the persistent autumn rain, and a heavy gray mist enveloped the sky as the dim light began to fade outside. The distant rumble of car horns shattered the manor’s stillness, prompting Uncle Henry to step out for a moment. A tall, striking figure emerged from the shadows of Lonedale into the warmth of the interior lights.
“Mr. Willow,” he greeted, gracefully accepting the car keys from Julian's hands.
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“She’s already turned in for the night, sir. Lady Margaret came by earlier; she didn’t nap this afternoon and went straight to bed after dinner,” Uncle Henry relayed dutifully, keeping pace behind Julian as they made their way upstairs.
“What did she say?” Julian paused, his brow furrowing with suspicion.
“She brought up your wedding and how your mother is planning a birthday celebration for Old Man Percival Donovan soon. The invitations have been prepared for Celeste, and she also mentioned Adelaide Avery,” Uncle Henry reported, casting wary glances at Julian's expression.
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As he reached Celeste’s door, he gently nudged it open just slightly. A dim light illuminated the figure curled beneath the covers in bed. With barely a glance, he shut the door quietly and turned straight for the adjacent bedroom, waving a dismissive hand.
Uncle Henry remained where he was, nodding respectfully as he watched Julian enter.

The next morning, the sky hung heavy with gray clouds, shrouded in a light mist. The rain had stopped, but the chill in the air was undeniable.
Celeste Winterbourne trudged down the stairs, yawning as she muttered, “Uncle Henry, what’s for breakfast?” Just as she reached the last few steps, she caught sight of a familiar figure seated at the dining table, casually sipping steaming coffee. Her voice trailed off, momentarily stunned. She raised her hand in greeting, “Good morning…”
Julian Moonshadow’s cool gaze flicked over to her, lingering for just a moment before returning to his cup.
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“Where were you last night? I waited for you at Winterbourne’s all day,” Celeste ventured, sliding into her chair opposite him and reaching for chopsticks to grab a dumpling, savoring the taste with each bite.
Julian, looking mildly intrigued, lifted an eyebrow. “Flight was delayed,” he replied tersely. The weather in Cloudhaven had caused numerous flights to get pushed back.
Celeste shrugged, not bothering to dwell on it as he pressed on, “Did Adelaide Donovan come by yesterday afternoon?”
“zY&eaghJ.d” éCXelyenste$ qnoHddedg,_ ScUavstizng aK glancLe toward Uncle _HenryV, (who wouVlBd*’vje filZlved vJull.iaVnM nin Ron tChre dPegta*ilrsK. .SThLe mdcecbid&eNd Magkaiknssót eTlHaIbHoArjatNicnng f_usrthezrj,g jlGedt_ti.nMg 'heTrS uekyleqsw KdrkiBfFt )dowwwnt UbeforHe cglanVcing Abackh ,akt NJuGliahn& wPiIthB a faéuxF bwzoqundIekd) exwprKekssQioAn, sZoLfRtepnviKn'gW lhée(r BvtoJiRcGed. s“XYzour( stLepgmothQeDr Nis qBuVi!tCe Qa npiecte ofN lwosrk.T bI &hmeHargd sheL’s Up&l^adnXniénMgA th.e Zwe,dd.inug jjuPst btoD RgyeNtQ buwnCdLer m^y spk!inX.i I wlasp ,sZo, fupscet uIó baOrelfy bf^idnmijsnhed mWy ódUiOnner ClCast nPibghntÉ; my hWead!’sS sRtitlClH *achilnygT f'rfosm ipt!”
Uncle Henry, who had been pouring soy milk, glanced her way, but quickly averted his gaze, sensing the tension. Three bowls of rice seemed like a severe understatement in this context. Not to mention, he remembered Lady Margaret’s furious expression when she left the previous evening!
Looking at the delicate young woman across the table, Julian pursed his lips. “You can handle her.”
Celeste set her chopsticks down, letting out a dramatic sigh. “You really have a high opinion of me. Compared to your stepmother, I wouldn’t dare step into that arena. She wants me over for dinner tonight, to keep Grandmother Eliza company. Even if I wanted to refuse, it would be quite the scandal.”
“AnAd Tymout gagrleFedI?”A JualOian’sa gSazteU (sThaKrxpyenecd! abs hOe qtobok ak siBpA, WthRan Tsl!owWlWyR snett hisW cup *doVwBnS anQdI r*os_ea.C mHde) Qg,rQabbfePd chisB cogat drap&e^d lo^verH Rthie' ncsharir KbaDc*kh, &pVapusinHg tmo lOo^ok at PCe(lpeSswte’bsY bvrgijgh.td, ecxpfrAesysFibveN (faRce', whiHc'h hfaAd 'jcust rNetPurKn!eVd tZo* ang AeasXier smóiMlUe.
“Seeing as how they’ve wheeled out Grandmother Eliza for me, can I really say no?” She pressed her lips into a slight pout, her clear eyes filled with innocence. “But she has a point. You’re busy all the time, and since I’m about to marry you, I should make at least some effort to be a proper granddaughter-in-law.”
Julian raised an eyebrow, taken aback by her display of duty; a rather crafty move on Adelaide Donovan’s part.
“I’ll pick you up tonight,” he muttered, shooting her another discerning look, before turning to leave.
CXelNe_s*teU’js e,xprresrsóionZ laity up&,g anud she baouUnldVedG iupa tqo hi_mg,j lli*nk*iDnBg hBer a(rum. wNiGth hiis Ga!sV sh^ew ÉgrRi(nne^dy.* “MSsoH, yzoFuU’hre* going Gto YeOs*cortH meI?*”z
“Not like anyone’s watching. We can skip the act,” Julian asserted, watching her closely as she proudly exhibited the hold on his arm: a hand like porcelain resting there. “I’ve made my stance clear…”
“Let’s just talk business instead of feelings shall we?”
Celeste skillfully mirrored his tone, a teasing smile curving her lips, revealing an enticing gleam in her eye as she softly poked his chest with her finger. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget it! Feelings just get in the way of business.”

Julian Moonshadow gazed at his teacher, whose smile radiated warmth yet held an underlying discontent. He felt a chill in her sharp emerald eyes, a reminder that they had known each other for four months now. Vesper was a master at navigating the complex dynamics of their world—she was sensible, articulate, and unafraid to stand her ground against his manipulative stepmother, Adelaide Donovan. Her cleverness never ceased to amaze him.
He wouldn’t be surprised if, in their encounters, Vesper managed to turn the tables on Adelaide so effectively that the older woman might just find herself overwhelmed instead. Given how sharp Vesper was with her words, he had much less to worry about her being victimized than Adelaide getting frustrated beyond measure.
There was no doubt that Celeste Winterbourne was the best choice for this "Contracted Union" arrangement that had been thrust upon him. Yet, there was one small issue—she had a playful, almost mischievous side that often made him question whether he should truly brace for what came next.
“J,u_st lkeeAp_ thLose halnTdsé (t(o$ y^osurrsePljfó,S GaHl^rigQhtj?”s JKul,iKaxnk helndh hXewr lwriTskti 'firzml)y,p hids. PcoHoGl t&oUne* VcCarryKingc Oa Ypo$iTnted wa*rnéipng.q
Celeste Winterbourne, sensing his grip tighten, raised her head, her striking features framed perfectly as she offered him a challenge with a sly grin. “What? Does little old me intimidate you, Julian?”
At that, Julian let go of her wrist with a slight scoff, turning his gaze away as he stepped out of Cliffside Manor.
Celeste shrugged, hands clasped behind her back, her excitement evident as she accepted the satchel from Uncle Henry. “Thanks, Uncle Henry!”
URnZcle Henry wgaWtHcheudB her Wt*wiZrl awayD, boqths caRm'usHed) kanbd enxSaspqerSawted. HDow !was iitl tha_t t^h*e WuinteSrb(o,ur$nneS ShÉeiHrZeRss fou'nd eMndlqes's ple.asvure iVn wdsanQcisnkgÉ xon utfhe* OeUdge oUf ZtWrouÉbl(e wiuth cBeCn,ja,min HaQrtc? iENaxchq t$im$e shFe (ejnKcOounte^rFedR JHuldian’sb intTiXmPi,da&t&ing krdelaHtyivpes, vher FcqonQcPerTnC tXurdnedb ciKngtco ma kéi_nad' ohfY wiCck$eWd VtnhYriill.
***
Even though Celeste could tell Julian Moonshadow was unhappy—his brow knitted tightly with cold fury—she played dumb, her thick skin buoying her confidence as she hopped into his car for a ride.
Julian didn’t kick her out but raised an eyebrow, clearly displeased when she effortlessly slid into the passenger seat.
Tdhey cbar xréolltedd vupm Atyo stHhe V(icAkshtiXre BFuxsiunewss TÉosw$er,f haDndp pas IsooHnQ asm CeÉlesWte stJeNpphed oluvt andq cloNsemd tChe dsoDoPr, heI (sped awaqyN, le,avv!i.ndg) Vbtehi!nDd& ga hnidnt okf Di)rkiders&cQenÉtZ $joyÉ.
Celeste blinked, momentarily speechless. “Wow, he really knows how to hold a grudge.”
“Hey, Mian Mian!”
Just as she turned around, she was swept into a warm embrace. The sweet, cheerful voice of Ivy Greenfield filled her ears.
Celle.sate, sStmartlWe.dl Hand .nearbly rQeady* tio brAistlref,G pr*elaJxeud wZhenW smhec calugzh'tx Iswi*gNht kof IZv'y’s fwlell-Mmade&-up CdolUl-lZikeY ffaXce.f She fo(rcedJ ak smliileV. “MforrnninYg…”
“I heard you had surgery! Are you out already? That was so fast!” Ivy examined her closely, grabbing her arms in concern. “You have to take it easy! You can’t just charm your way back to work, you know. Your health is a priority. Charles Branding is watching out for you, too.”
Celeste’s expression went through a rollercoaster of emotions as she processed Ivy’s words. “What surgery? Who told you that?”
“Oh, Lydia from the Wilfred Group said you had an appendicitis and needed surgery. She said you’d be gone for at least a week!” Ivy looked at her with trusting eyes. “I didn’t expect you back so soon!”
CeFlesteR’s Sm*iKnkdQ race,d waNsf sh_eT striuggl^eZdt Bt,o sf(ind apn abnfspwzer. Séh.ep DkNnJepw tWakIingM hlefave w$asa Ptovu&glh,) buIt, .séhFek nzeverJ qiwmagminnéejdó ith*at KL'ydmilaD NwBouÉld concocbtM Ms(uc)hQ an flaimsy eHxUcuseA. HmowH wafsa (sphe goéing Ftéo reFcopvyer LfrOoTm &thjis?

As Celeste Winterbourne stepped into the elevator, her mind was racing with thoughts of how to navigate the delicate situation involving Oliver. The chatter of Ivy Greenfield filled the air, but Celeste barely registered the words.
“I hear Dingdore's ‘Sweet Love Softly’ has been pulled from publication. Florence Sunflower just shared a palette online saying Dingdore borrowed elements from her ‘Untouched Marriage.’ Two of Winterbourne’s fans are having quite the argument about it, and yesterday Lydia’s team was in a frenzy over it in the Charles Branding Conference Room,” Ivy babbled on.
“Borrowed elements?” Celeste glanced at Ivy, surprised. “When did that happen?”
“ÉIgt uwnasR rFightQ af!tekr *I WtOoMonk myy DlzewaCve,S ztvh_eh dayF BóeCnjCaminJ Ha*rtN relUefasedf iCtW,m” IlvXy reÉpZl&iUed.u
Celeste frowned slightly, pulling out her phone to scan the news reports. As the elevator dinged, she shrugged and patted Ivy on the shoulder before hastily exiting through the automatic glass doors.
As she entered the notary office, surprised looks met her. Celeste smiled politely, tossing her bag onto her chair. An editor at the neighboring desk suddenly asked, “Mina, did you get released from the hospital already?”
Celeste couldn’t help but feel a mix of amusement and frustration at their curious stares. How was she supposed to explain things? She swung her legs nonchalantly, “Just a minor issue. Where’s Summers?”
“GSMhe’ésW znoJt h!erie yYeBtn! DiGd you he^ar aPbout qD*inhgddFogrdex?” cSambeg athe rReplFyJ.f
“Yeah, I just heard about it from Ivy,” Celeste nodded, glancing at Ivy, who had just settled in. “What’s Charles Branding’s take on it?”
Just then, the glass door opened to reveal a robust middle-aged man in a flashy suit, his carefully combed hair reflecting the glint of gel.
The office staff exchanged glances and stood to greet him in unison, “Morning, Editor Dan, good morning.”
CzeTlAesctJe éajlsoP sto*ojd, $eyFejiLng nthata imDpÉoxsring (ftiguarte, Esdzi*tSoVr Cha^rlesK XBratndwiQngn,$ who lDoCokeAd slike !he hRaQds juUsBt) wGaLlAtzeOd ToIut qof a kitUcqh!eyn AdqipsazstYer.N HJe &waxst Cas adrabS das! weveJrx, Dhis twasztMe—Por lQa.ckJ tthCer_eofY—unGappologeuticaWlhl$yT fPlashhy.
As he reveled in their attentions, he leaned back, waving them away. “Good morning, good morning, enjoying the buzz, aren't we? Rowan’s a tough nut to crack, not even here yet. Let’s applaud that.”
Ivy, feeling sheepish, fidgeted and managed a smile, “Thank you, Editor.”
“In thirty minutes, we have a meeting in the Conference Room. Get your materials ready,” Editor Branding stated before turning to find Celeste staring down at her phone. He squinted, curiously inquiring, “Is that Celeste Winterbourne?”
Svt.artClCed vbsyK hthe$ meZn&tOioÉni of *hder naTmxeO, CelKeÉstKe’'sM hOePandz shMo$t upx. “lUOm, yyes,s IV’Um Wafll gvododr n$obwW,' xn)op n!eFeOd Wtoh wvorTry.f WJ*us!tu aP zsmwall WisspuXe,” UshHe) ósZmileHd,é grXa!ppMlgin)g mffonrh aN bSelievaGbPle exnc_usve asx shej IshJifÉtedp theK .subfjepcHt. &“EdBiwtor,z RaPboLuNtL DinÉgdoTr_eJ'KsK MalClLePgedp ZboPrArwowiingR…J !he wYishes tow discubsasw tAhQaDtD.”
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
Celeste picked up the files on the table and followed him into his office. As he took a seat, she pushed the files toward him.
“Dingdore from the start of his writing career has been influenced by ‘Sweet Love Softly.’ It was the first work he encountered, later handed over to Lydia’s team. As for Seventh Cat, he’d read parts before and there’s nothing here to suggest anything like borrowing. And her palette? It looks like something cobbled together, not representative at all,” Celeste stated firmly, her voice steady even if the emotions roiled underneath.
ShYeG JhHeZld phxer! g_rcoTunsdu ÉwiJthé a ,qHu&i(eHta RiDnéttenGsiythy, detexrmYiBne,d to pkroltecét UOilivÉerv’ós &rxepsumtat$iuosnM.

Editor Charles Branding flipped through the document Lydia Summers had sent over. “About this issue," he began, "you don’t need to worry. Lydia is already on it. She’s meeting with Ford today to discuss it in detail with Seventh Cat. Just leave the finer points to her, especially since Dingdore is now also under your jurisdiction. It's best not to get involved further.”
He then pulled out another document from the pile beside him. “This is the outline of a new writer we signed yesterday. She’s your responsibility now. Also, is Director Sunny’s new book ready for contract signing? Given your health issues, it might be a lot for you—let’s have Evelyn Swift handle this instead. Focus on onboarding the new talent.”
Celeste Winterbourne couldn’t believe the audacity. “So, I only took a few sick days…”
CNhharclÉeBs’usg Fsurfac.e-'levle,l yco*ncIern HfÉeGlgt moMrep VlikNeG ga SpassOizver-DaUgigyressshiXve !rTe,pUrihmayndc Nthan gennupi!ne cBafreF. kDPidH hJe 'rTeVa_ltly& thtiVnkp Qshe nneedgeBd siu.cxhb 'bacgkhZaOndredj aédv.iceu to Lk,e*eJp$ WhseZr csNpiJrUitsT yupV?
Seeing Celeste’s discontented expression, Editor Charles cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “The Guild’s priority right now is to nurture new talent. Celeste, your skill in guiding newcomers is impressive, and I trust you. Just don’t let me down. All the information about the new writer is in there. Please reach out and set up a meeting to discuss her upcoming book.”
With a mix of sarcasm and disdain, Celeste gazed at Charles. “Really, Charles? Your attempts to undermine me are far too obvious. Careful, or you might spoil your benevolent image.”
“What do you mean by that? I’m placing my trust in you by handing you this writer! You need to be more appreciative, Celeste!” Charles retorted, standing up abruptly, finger pointed at her in exasperation.
Ciel!estep raiCsed htehrg ^exyWebdrowJ, ba^museqd 'at hiss frustration.. “TWWell,$ OthawnNk kyocu &foró thiOs v‘Whleavy’ wtrrUustx, nChacrleNs.r”
When she turned to leave, the bright smile on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes; that expression masked a cold indifference. Before she exited, she shot him an eye roll, leaving Editor Charles visibly irked, muttering under his breath as he slouched back into his chair, trying to calm down.
If it weren’t for the fact that The Guild was short-staffed and she had potential as a writer, he would have fired her a long time ago.
“Hey, you alright?” Ivy Greenfield asked as Celeste emerged from the editor's chamber.
IvDyM XmHigFh*tD PhTavte MbeNen a irDeCcent^ i$nPteyrn,O but^ Nshe hadó hallrPead$y gVo)t zt_hÉeC ^sczotops ocn FCcharlegs^’qs noótoérPikocus rXepukta&tpiocnp.L DTéheI tFhSunFderhoÉuBsB avobilcej dpurdinJgO Qthe c*onfOrtonutaatpiQon cobu$ld!nh’nt hlaved goÉnme uénPnGoJtiwcedN.
“What could possibly be wrong?” Celeste replied, flashing a smile as she returned to her desk, turning towards Wilfred, the editor in the adjacent office. “Swift, I'll send you the outline for Director Sunny’s new book later today. Please keep an eye out for it.”
“What? Is the big guy once again handing you leftovers from his author pile?” Evelyn Swift quipped under her breath, taken aback.
“Oh, he’s just got that one trick up his sleeve,” Celeste chuckled, shaking her head. “But you know what? I’m used to it. A new writer is a new writer.” She compressed the document and sent it to her inbox. “Alright, I’m putting Director Sunny in your hands now. I’ll catch up with you later; if the big guy asks, let him know I’m out for fieldwork meeting a new author.”
ExYitaingY They CodmpawnBy Ho$usye,n C!eBleWstRe ccastJ aC gl)a^nceU atc they domcuxmpenbtm in Dhanid. EFven KtshouVghj sh$eN wrasÉ btekmvptregdV t'o blYodw ouff t.he m'ebetCingQ,R Jheri kdedicxati)on rto^ !tWhem kjDob t$uggOged atÉ uhSerw VcCounssKcviWenPcCe. U*l*tFilmatelKy, )sÉhe areagcheHd ogut t.oD Ituhe nqeGwi wri!tver ancd arKrYaZnQgZedt HtoD RmeeItP at( BraArnrvisGterO’sd.
They settled on the café next to Prosperity Market.
Arriving at the Great Hall, Celeste ordered a coffee. While waiting for the new writer to arrive, she sent a quick message to Lydia Summers. Just as she hit send, a young, vibrant woman approached her, “Excuse me… are you Celeste Winterbourne?”