Chapter 7 - The Trap Closes on Celeste
Celeste Miller sat in a booth at a diner on Western Avenue, her hood pulled low over her baseball cap.
Across from her sat a freelance producer from a third-tier digital tabloid. On the sticky laminate table between them were three printed pages of screenshots: text messages between Celeste and Harrison from six months ago, discussing how they would handle Clara’s family money once the Series B round closed.
“It’s not enough, Celeste,” the producer said, chewing on a toothpick. “The public hates you. You’re radioactive. Two days ago, you were the devoted angel who prayed him back to life. Today, you’re the side piece who helped him loot the company. Nobody wants to buy your tell-all.”
“I have voice notes!” Celeste whispered desperately, her nails digging into her palms. “I have recordings of him calling his mother an old bat! I have photos of the Sterling estate Harrison took from inside the gates!”
“The Sterling lawyers sent a cease-and-desist to every media outlet in North America,” the man said, sliding the papers back into his folder. “Vivian Cross doesn't play games. If we run your stuff, Clara Sterling sues us into the stone age. You’re done, kid. If I were you, I’d take the bus back to Indiana before the grand jury convenes.”
He stood up, dropped a five-dollar bill on the table for his coffee, and walked out.
Celeste sat alone.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Harrison:
*Celeste, you have to help me. My mother’s loan is due. The motel is kicking us out tomorrow. Do you have any of the cash from the safe? Please. I loved you.*
Celeste stared at the screen, her lips curling into a snarl of pure disgust.
*“You loved me?”* she typed back, her fingers stabbing the glass. *“You’re a broke, crippled fraud. Don't ever text this number again.”*
She hit block.
She stood up, grabbed her oversized bag, and walked toward the exit. But as she pushed through the glass door into the gray afternoon light, two men in dark gray suits stepped into her path.
“Celeste Miller?”
“I don't have any money!” she shouted, flinching back. “Leave me alone!”
“We’re not process servers, Miss Miller,” the first man said, opening his jacket to reveal a federal identification badge. “Internal Revenue Service, Criminal Investigation Division. We have a warrant for your arrest concerning undisclosed income and wire fraud conspiracy involving C. Miller Holdings.”
Celeste’s knees buckled.
Her designer bag hit the wet sidewalk, spilling lipsticks, cheap motels keys, and half-empty pill bottles into the gutter.
May you like
As the cold steel of the handcuffs clicked around her wrists, she looked up into the window of a passing bus. Her reflection looked back at her—haggard, terrifying, and completely, utterly erased.
***
