Page 62 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

There’s no storm this time as I walk toward Irene’s house. No burning need to confront her. Just something colder. Something heavier.

Closure.

I reach her door and hesitate, my hand hovering above the worn handle. The last time I stood here, I was a different woman. A woman desperate for answers.

Now, I already know everything I need.

I knock, softer than before.

The door opens. Irene stands there, her expression caught between caution and relief.

“You look different,” she says softly.

“I am,” I reply.

She steps aside without a word, and I enter.

We settle in her living room, the same faint scent of lavender lingering in the air.

Irene watches me closely, her gaze searching.

“It’s done,” I tell her, my voice steady.

She lifts her brows slightly but doesn’t interrupt.

“Miramont is gone. Their files, their experiments, their influence. All of it dismantled.”

For a moment, she says nothing. Then a small, weary smile touches her lips. “You did it,” she says, almost in disbelief.

I nod once.

“And the ones who hurt you? The ones who started all of it?”

“They will be exposed in time,” I answer. My tone leaves no room for questions.

Irene lets out a long breath, her body easing back into the chair. “You always had your mother’s fire,” she says softly.

I smile faintly, letting her words hang in the air without reply.

Irene’s smile deepens, a rare softness flickering through her guarded features. “She would have been proud of you,” she says. “They both would, your parents.”

For the first time, it doesn’t sting to hear them mentioned.

“I wanted you to know,” I say, meeting her gaze fully. “Because you’re still my blood. And despite everything, I literally don’t have any family left.”

Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t let the tears fall.

“You didn’t have to tell me,” she says, her voice soft.

“I know,” I reply. “But I wanted to.”

We sit in silence for a while, the years between us shrinking with every second that slips by.

“What happens now?” she finally asks.

“I have plans,” I say, my voice steady. “A new clinic that’s ethical and transparent. Something different from everything I’ve known.”

Her expression flickers with cautious hope. “You really think you can build something good out of all this darkness?”

“I have to try,” I answer.

Irene leans forward, her eyes sharp but warm. “You already did the impossible,” she says. “Maybe there’s more of your mother in you than you realize.”

“Maybe,” I admit.

She reaches out, her hand brushing mine gently. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thick with something unspoken.

“For what?”

“For surviving. And for not hating me beyond repair,” she says softly.

I squeeze her hand lightly.

“We all did what we thought we had to,” I say.

The night deepens around us, but neither of us moves.

“You can visit,” I offer. “When the new place is ready. You should see what it looks like when truth isn’t hidden.”

She smiles, small and soft. “I’d like that,” she says.

There are no grand declarations. No apologies left to give. Just gentle understanding.

When I finally stand to leave, she walks me to the door. “Be careful, Celeste,” she says.

“I always am,” I reply.

But this time, there’s no bitterness. No shadows lingering between us.

I step out into the night, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in years.

The past will always be a part of me.

But now, it no longer owns me.

And for the first time, the future feels like mine to shape.

I pause just outside her gate, the night air crisp against my skin.

Inside the house, I can see Irene through the window, watching me from the threshold, her face shadowed but no longer cold. We don’t wave. We don’t need to.

Some ties are too old to sever, even after everything.

Before I can leave completely, Irene’s voice calls out from behind me. “Stay a little longer. For tea,” she says.

It’s not a plea. It’s softer than that.

I hesitate, then turn back. “Alright.”

In her kitchen, everything feels frozen in time—old porcelain cups, copper kettles, shelves lined with spices that have probably sat untouched for years.

She moves with gentle familiarity, setting everything in place. The kettle hums.

“Your mother used to drink this blend,” she says, handing me a cup of strong black tea tinged with something floral.

I sip, and the taste is strange but comforting.

“I don’t remember,” I admit.

“She drank it before every hard decision,” Irene says, her voice distant.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“She was stubborn,” Irene adds after a pause, a faint smile pulling at her mouth. “Wouldn’t back down from anything.”

“Maybe that’s where I get it,” I murmur.

We sit at the table, the tea warming our hands.

“I didn’t just come back for closure,” I admit.

Irene looks up, her gaze steady.

“I needed to know if there was more,” I continue.

She studies me carefully.

“You want to know if you were meant to be more than what they shaped you into,” she says, seeing right through me.

I nod slowly.

Irene exhales as if laying down a heavy burden.

“You were always more,” she says. “Even before they touched you. You fought harder than anyone else would have.”

Her words catch me off guard, unexpected and sincere.

“I don’t know what to do with peace,” I admit, my voice tight.

“Then start by learning to live in it,” she says simply.

Hours pass, unnoticed.

We drift into stories about the past, all the small memories. Times before everything fell apart.

She tells me about my mother’s laugh and the way she would sing to herself when cooking. She tells me how my father used to tinker late into the night, scribbling half-formed ideas on napkins and receipts.

It feels distant, like hearing tales about strangers.

But something in me softens.

And I let it.

By the time I stand to leave again, the weight inside me feels different. It’s not completely gone. But it’s carried with more ease.

Irene walks me to the door once more. “You know where to find me,” she says.

I nod.

We share a look, a subtle understanding passing between us.

I step into the night, the cold sharper now, but not unwelcome.

The world feels wider.

And for the first time, my steps feel entirely my own.

As I walk away, the weight on my chest lifts with each step.

My path from here is clear. There are still things to build, people to confront, and lives to untangle. But this chapter? This one is finished.

I don’t look back.

The road ahead belongs to me.