She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

Celeste sat across from us in a hotel robe someone had found in the closet.

Her satin dress hung over a chair, stained with champagne at the hem.

Without makeup, she looked younger and sharper.

Less like a mistress.

More like a woman doing math in a burning building.

“I did not know Orchard House was yours,” she said.

Mara did not blink.

“You signed as managing continue reading …