Never Forgive Never Forget (Celeste and Philip) novel Chapter 120

The terrace outside the ballroom was nearly empty—a quiet retreat graced only by the night wind and a lone bartender stationed behind his counter.

"Can I get you a drink?" the bartender asked, spinning a glass between his fingers. Ice cubes clinked against whiskey, sending droplets sparkling into the air like tiny stars.

Celeste leaned lazily against the glass railing, her eyes half-lidded, one finger raised in a casual gesture.

"Nothing that'll make me tipsy. Just a glass of orange juice."

"As you wish." The bartender's smile remained smooth and unhurried.

He plucked a ripe orange from the bowl, tossed it in his palm, let it somersault and bounce before feeding it into the juicer.

Celeste watched, fighting off boredom, and wondered if all bartenders were secretly magicians at heart.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Viola approaching.

"Alfred didn't show up tonight. Is he worried the paparazzi will snap his picture and his wife will find out?"

Viola's tone was sharp. "So, Celeste, is being the mistress of a millionaire all it's cracked up to be?"

Celeste almost laughed. Now here was someone who truly loved theatrics.

The wind whipped stray hairs across their faces. Viola squinted, eyes half-shut against the gusts, while Celeste, standing upwind, let a sly smile tug at her lips.

"I'm perfectly happy with my life. Jealous, are you?"

Viola's smile faltered, just a little.

Celeste studied her face, recalling the girl Viola once was—a mountain girl with wide, apprehensive eyes and cheeks so hollow it seemed she'd never had a proper meal. Celeste remembered her own moment of weakness: seeing Viola clutching a battered textbook, shoes split from crossing too many ridges, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of life's injustices.

So she'd helped her. Pulled her out of that remote valley, put her in a crisp new uniform, found her a warm bed in the school dormitory.

But Viola hadn't soared academically. Instead, she'd shed her old skin for silk pajamas and slipped right into Celeste and Philip's home—settling in, taking root, spreading like mold until there was no corner untouched.

Celeste looked again at Viola and saw no trace of that angry, indignant spirit who once raged against the world's unfairness. All that remained was a woman bloated with envy.

"Celeste, I'm only worried that Mrs. Hopkins might retaliate against you, I—"

"My private affairs are suddenly your concern?"

The voice that answered wasn't Philip's, but Alfred's—cold and cutting as steel.

Viola spun around. Alfred's icy gaze swept over her, and suddenly the night felt suffocating. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck.

Had she really just tried to stir up trouble between Alfred's wife and mistress right in front of him?

She was doomed.

Her knees buckled, and just then Philip appeared, hurrying out after Alfred. He immediately stepped forward, shielding Viola behind him.

"Mr. Alfred, Viola was just making small talk with Celeste. She meant no offense or interference in your private matters. Please accept my apology on her behalf."