The warehouse stood before them like a sleeping beast—silent, unmoving, but exuding a presence that made Celeste's skin crawl. The cracked windows, the rusted metal panels, the eerie stillness of the lot surrounding it—it all felt like a warning.
Amelia's fingers twitched at her side, a tension in her stance that Celeste had learned to recognize. She was on edge. Desperate. Determined.
Celeste, on the other hand, was trying not to think about the crack on her wrist.
Because she knew, deep down, that what lay beyond those doors wasn't just about a stolen painting. It was about her.
And she wasn't sure she was ready for the answers.
Amelia reached for her hand, squeezing it briefly. "We go in, we get what we need, and we get out. Fast."
Celeste nodded, though her pulse was already quickening.
They took a step forward.
And then—
A car door slammed behind them.
"That's far enough."
The voice sent an icy shiver down Celeste's spine. Deep. Commanding. Familiar. Amelia's entire body tensed as she turned sharply on her heel. Celeste followed her gaze.
Nathaniel Sinclair stood at the edge of the lot, the headlights of a sleek black car casting his imposing figure into sharp relief. His tailored coat barely moved in the night breeze, his stance solid as stone. A warning. A threat.
Amelia's jaw clenched. "Get out of our way."
Nathaniel took a slow, measured step forward, hands tucked into his coat pockets. "You're making a mistake." Celeste swallowed hard, resisting the urge to shrink back. There was something in his gaze when it flickered to her—something she couldn't quite name. Calculation. Resignation. A trace of pity.
"We don't have time for this," Amelia snapped. "They have her painting." Nathaniel barely blinked. "And what exactly do you think you're going to do about it?"
Amelia's hands balled into fists. "Whatever it takes." Nathaniel exhaled sharply, looking past her, directly at Celeste. "You don't understand what you're walking into."
Celeste met his gaze, throat tightening. "Then tell us." His jaw tensed, as if he was debating whether he should. Then, finally, he sighed. "The people inside that warehouse don't care about art theft." A pause. "They care about you."
Celeste's breath hitched. Amelia stepped in front of her instinctively. "Then all the more reason to go in.", Nathaniel's expression darkened. "No.". Before either of them could react, he pulled something from inside his coat—a small, sleek remote. He pressed a button.
The warehouse lights flooded to life. A loud click echoed from the entrance. The doors—once slightly ajar—locked shut. Celeste's stomach dropped. Amelia's eyes widened in realization. "You knew we were coming."
Nathaniel's silence was answer enough. "You set this up?" Amelia's voice rose in fury. "You trapped us out here?" Nathaniel remained composed, his voice dangerously calm. "I stopped you." Amelia let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You don't get to make that decision for me."
Nathaniel's patience visibly thinned. "I just did."
A tense silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Celeste could feel Amelia's rage thrumming beneath her skin, threatening to spill over. She wanted to fight him, wanted to scream, to push past him—but it was too late. The warehouse was locked. The opportunity was gone.
Celeste took a shaky breath. "Why are you doing this?"
Nathaniel turned his gaze back to her. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly—
"Because you don't belong here." The words cut deeper than she expected.
Amelia moved before Celeste could stop her, stepping up to him, furious. "You don't get to decide that.". Nathaniel held his ground. "Neither do you."
Amelia trembled with frustration. "She is real." Nathaniel exhaled, his gaze unreadable. "For now." Celeste's heart pounded. That wasn't a warning. That was a promise.
Amelia shook her head, stepping back as if she couldn't stand to be near him. "You're unbelievable.". Nathaniel didn't flinch. "I don't expect you to understand now.". Amelia let out a sharp breath, looking back at the locked warehouse doors, helpless. Nathaniel adjusted his coat, already turning back toward his car. "You'll thank me later." Amelia's hands shook at her sides. Celeste could feel the war raging inside her—the need to fight, to do something—but there was nothing left to be done.
The battle was lost before it even began. Celeste swallowed down the lump in her throat, looking at Amelia. "Let's go." Amelia's eyes burned with defiance, but she didn't argue.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
But as they walked back toward the car, Celeste knew this wasn't over.
Not even close.