Never Forgive Never Forget (Celeste and Philip) novel Chapter 107

Derek sat upright on the couch, his eyes half-closed, his expression unreadable.

He was resting.

Celeste instinctively softened her footsteps.

As she drew near, Derek seemed to sense her presence and slowly opened his eyes. Those eyes, weathered by a lifetime of storms, shifted with deliberate slowness to look at Celeste.

"Celeste, are you hurt?"

"…What?"

Celeste was startled.

She'd expected her grandfather to scold her for disrespecting her elders, maybe lecture her for her attitude.

But the first thing he did was ask if she was alright.

Seeing her surprise, Derek's stern gaze softened.

"I heard you drove your father to the hospital in a fit of rage, but I made sure to ask what really happened."

"Your father hosted that dinner party—that was his choice. He demanded you play the perfect hostess without even telling you in advance. Then, when you spoke up, he accused you of being rude and disciplined you in front of guests… That was out of line."

"A family as established as ours is supposed to protect its own."

"Your father lost sight of that. For the sake of his own interests, he humiliated his daughter in front of outsiders. He was wrong, Celeste. Not you."

His voice was calm and steady as he laid out the truth, one fact after another.

Celeste stood frozen, a lump rising in her throat.

It had been Amanda—her least favorite person—who'd called Grandpa. She knew Amanda would twist the story, paint her in the worst possible light, blame her for everything.

And yet.

Even so, Grandpa had managed to see through the lies.

He'd defended her.

Her nose stung with emotion, and Derek spoke again.

"Come here, sweetheart. Let me see what that pigheaded father of yours did to you."

"I'm fine."

Neither Celeste nor Alfred could refuse him.

That evening—

A maid led them to their room.

There was one large bed in the center, impossible to miss.

This wasn't Alfred's usual room. It was cozier, obviously meant for a female guest: fresh flowers on the windowsill, a plush Italian rug in bright, cheerful colors.

Celeste hesitated, glancing at the bed. "There's… only one bed?"

Alfred entered behind her, shutting the door and blocking out the maid's knowing smile.

"I'll take the couch."

Celeste looked doubtfully at the narrow sofa, then at Alfred—tall, broad-shouldered, with legs far too long for such a cramped spot.

"Maybe I should take the couch. It's probably a bit much for you…"

But Alfred was already shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto the sofa.