For days, Leon had followed cold trails and dead ends, growing more frustrated with every lead that fizzled. Rhea had disappeared so thoroughly it was as if she'd never existed.
But Leon was not the type to give up.
He pulled strings, called in favors, and traced the faintest crumbs of information until one finally paid off — a short-term rental apartment on the outskirts of a small town, barely noted by anyone. Someone matching Rhea's description had signed in, paid cash, kept her head down.
Leon drove out himself, refusing to trust anyone else with what he needed to know.
He found her in a tired-looking apartment building, standing nervously on the balcony with a coffee cup in her hands. The moment their eyes met, she froze.
"Leon," she breathed, color draining from her face.
He didn't bother pretending. "We need to talk."
"I don't know anything," she said quickly, trying to retreat back inside.
He caught the door before it closed, calm but unyielding. "You know everything. And I'm prepared to pay for it."
Rhea swallowed hard. There was fear in her eyes — and something else, the old cunning she could never quite bury.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you even care, Leon? You threw her away."
Leon's jaw tightened. "That's none of your concern. I want answers. All of them."
She studied him for a long, quiet moment. Then she stepped back, motioning for him to come inside.
The apartment was small, barely furnished, a stark change from the cozy, familiar life she had built before everything fell apart. Rhea perched on the arm of the couch, arms crossed.
"How much?" she demanded flatly.
Leon reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick envelope. "Enough," he said. "But you tell me everything. From the day you found her until you left. Every detail."
Her eyes flicked to the money, then back to him. For a second, she looked ashamed, but the moment passed quickly.
"Fine," she sighed. "Sit down."
He did, ignoring the way the room smelled of stale coffee and stress.
Rhea began to talk, her voice steady but laced with an edge of guilt. She told him about the day she'd found Celeste half-dead, wandering with no memories, how she'd taken her in, named her Celeste, built up the lie until it became their reality.
She explained how she'd trained Celeste on the Laurent family's history, coached her on what to say, how to act.
"She trusted me," Rhea admitted, eyes darting away. "She really believed she was Celeste."
Leon felt something twist in his chest.
"And you let her walk into that house," he said coldly, "knowing she wasn't their daughter."
Rhea's shoulders sagged. "I needed the reward," she said simply. "It was supposed to be harmless. She would live rich, I would get a cut. No one was supposed to get hurt."
Leon's fists clenched. "No one was supposed to get hurt?"
Rhea shook her head, shame flickering. "She started to believe it. That's what ruined everything."
Leon took a long breath, letting her words settle.
He stood slowly, dropping the envelope of cash on the coffee table. "Where did she come from? Before you found her?"
Rhea bit her lip. "I don't know. I swear. She was in the ruins of an old fire, half-dead, no ID, nothing. I named her Celeste because it was the only name I thought might save her."
Leon stared at her, reading her face for any lie. But there was only exhaustion there.
He nodded once. "If you think of anything else," he said, voice quiet and dangerous, "call me."
Then he turned to leave, the truth weighing heavier than he had expected.
Celeste had been innocent — used, manipulated, and left to carry a lie alone.
As he stepped back into the fading sunlight, Leon knew one thing with grim certainty:
He wasn't finished with her. Not yet.