Never Forgive Never Forget (Celeste and Philip) novel Chapter 85

A flash of cold determination flickered in Viola's eyes.

Her fingers tightened almost involuntarily around the man's neck, jealousy twisting sharp and bitter inside her.

A little songbird, raised in Philip's gilded cage...

And now, that same bird dared make Philip—and herself—wary?

Did Celeste really think that just by becoming Alfred's mistress, she could rule the roost?

One day, Viola would make sure Celeste understood her place: a mistress would always be just that. In front of the real Mrs. Hopkins, she'd never be anything more than a plaything, easily put in her place.

As she idly traced her fingertips along the nape of Philip's neck, Viola finally felt a sliver of comfort—however fleeting. It didn't matter. Sooner or later, she'd make Philip fall for her instead of Celeste.

She melted into his arms, her voice syrupy sweet and drawn out for effect.

"Alright, alright, I'll do whatever you say, Philip—"

"Good."

Philip stood, slipping out of her embrace.

"It's getting late. You should get some rest."

***

The next evening.

Alfred was tied up with work, so he sent Mack to fetch Celeste.

A custom-fitted black and gold evening gown.

A full professional styling team.

Mack brought it all along.

The dress hugged her figure perfectly, the interplay of black and gold adding an air of poise and opulence.

Her dark hair was swept up elegantly, chin lifted as the stylist dusted golden shimmer along her cheekbones. Once her makeup was finished, her features looked even more defined, her eyes striking enough to make a few of the makeup artists' hearts skip a beat.

"Black and gold really is your color."

"It's not just the dress—it's you, ma'am. Your features make it all work."

Her wine spilled, splattering across a hand-stitched suit.

"I'm so sorry—"

She stopped short, looking up to see two familiar faces—Philip and Viola.

Of all the chances...

Celeste quickly bit back her words, coughed softly, and lowered her voice.

"My apologies."

"Is that supposed to fix things?" Viola snapped, glaring at her. She hurried to dab at Philip's jacket, her voice dripping with indignation. "This suit was custom-made, booked out half a year in advance! How is he supposed to show his face at an event like this with a stain—"

"Viola."

Philip's hand pressed gently over hers, cutting her off. He lifted his gaze, studying the woman in front of him.

Despite the mask, the figure in the black dress was unmistakable. Those eyes—cool, steady—were impossible to forget.