Chapter 1

The dinner on the table grew cold, its steam fading into the air.

Celeste Monroe sat alone, her heart sinking with the passing minutes.

At 2:30 a.m., the silence was broken by the front door swinging open.

Damien Sterling walked in, his presence as icy as the winter night outside.

"Why are you still awake?" he asked sharply, his frown deepening when he saw her.

"Didn’t I tell you I’d be with Isolde tonight? I said I’d be late."

Celeste dropped her eyes to her lap, her fingers curling against the edge of the table.

After a long pause, she finally muttered, "Happy birthday."

It was already past midnight. His birthday had ended.

"Celeste, what’s the point?"

Damien’s tone dripped with irritation.

"Isolde is my girlfriend. She has every right to celebrate with me. You, on the other hand—what are you doing? I’m your uncle. Do you even understand what that means?"

"Whatever you’re thinking, it’s disgusting. Get it through your head that there’s no possibility of anything between us. Just the idea of it makes me sick."

He turned and slammed the door behind him, leaving Celeste alone with the stinging echo of his words.

She stared at her feet, her voice barely audible as she whispered, "I’m sorry, Uncle Damien. It won’t happen again."

"This is the last birthday I’ll ever spend with you," she thought.

The room felt unbearably cold, colder than the cryogenic chamber she had read about earlier.

Celeste shivered at the thought.

She had always hated the cold.

As a child, she would tiptoe barefoot across icy floors to curl up next to her uncle.

Back then, Damien was kind, pulling her into bed, reading her stories until she fell asleep in his warmth.

The ringing of her phone cut through her memories.

She answered, her voice shaky.

"Celeste, have you made up your mind?"

Professor Hayes asked on the other end.

"I know the cancer diagnosis hit you hard, but there are still treatments—"

"Professor, it’s stage four lymphoma. There’s no cure," Celeste replied, her tone calm and detached.

A long silence followed before the professor sighed deeply.

"Even so, you need to think this through. Cryonics is experimental. The technology is unproven. Freezing a living person is dangerous—there’s a real chance you won’t survive the process."

Celeste smiled faintly.

"I’ve thought it through, Professor."

Without waiting for a response, she ended the call.

Her gaze fell on the empty chair Damien had left behind.

The warmth of his presence was gone, leaving only a biting chill.

The world felt as lifeless and frigid as a frozen wasteland.

Her phone buzzed with a notification.

She opened it to find a photo.

Damien and Isolde, their fingers intertwined.

The massive blue diamond on Isolde’s ring finger sparkled even through the screen.

Celeste’s chest tightened as tears streamed down her face.

She bit her lip hard, trying to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape.

Do you hate me this much, Damien? Is this really necessary?

The ring on Isolde’s finger—the one Damien had given her—was Celeste’s design.

It was one of a pair: The Mermaid’s Heart, a set of blue diamond rings she had created to symbolize pure and selfless love.

Designing those rings had been her silent confession to Damien.

"You’re insane," he had said when he discovered the truth.

"I’m your uncle—your father’s brother! Do you even hear yourself? Stop this right now.

If you ever bring this up again, I’ll make sure you’re out of my life for good."

Even though they weren’t related by blood, Damien’s rejection had been absolute.

Her feelings, no matter how sincere, were dirty and shameful in his eyes.

The next notification flashed across her screen: a social media post.

Isolde had shared the engagement photo.

She wore The Mermaid’s Heart proudly, announcing to the world that she and Damien were getting married.

Celeste stared at the post, her hands trembling.

Just as her tears blurred the screen, an email arrived.

It was from the cryonics research lab.

The subject line read: Consent Form for Cryopreservation.

Her fingers hovered over the screen.

Instead of signing, she picked up her phone and dialed Damien’s number.

The first call went unanswered.

Then the second.

By the fifth, he finally picked up.

"What is it, Celeste?"

Damien’s voice was sharp, laced with frustration.

She hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I just wanted to say… congratulations."

He scoffed.

"I hope you mean that."

She bit her lip, forcing herself to continue.

"When’s the wedding?"

"December 12th," he said coldly, his voice as sharp as winter’s chill.

The words hit her like a dagger.

December 12th—her birthday.

Chapter 2

Celeste Monroe’s parents had both died when she was only a child.

An old newspaper headline flashed through her memory:

"Prominent Socialite Suffers Mental Breakdown, Stabs Husband Over 100 Times Before Taking Her Own Life. Leaves Behind Five-Year-Old Daughter."

She was that five-year-old girl.

In the dead of winter, she had hidden in a closet, barefoot and clad in pajamas, her small body trembling as the icy cold seeped into her bones.

She had been too terrified to move.

It was Damien Sterling who found her.

"Celeste, it’s okay now," he had said, scooping her up in his arms.

"Uncle Damien is here. No one will ever hurt you again."

Wrapped in his embrace, Celeste felt safe for the first time.

Damien took her in, and perhaps out of pity for what she’d been through, he spoiled her endlessly. There wasn’t a single thing she asked for that he didn’t give her—even the stars in the sky.

And he meant it.

The trauma of her parents’ tragic deaths left her with deep emotional scars.

When Damien first brought her home, she clung to him like a lifeline, unable to bear even a moment apart.

Whenever he was out of sight, her panic would spiral into uncontrollable fear.

One quiet night, Damien carried her onto the roof, pointing to the brightest star in the sky.

"See that star, Celeste?" he’d said softly.

"I bought it for you."

He handed her a certificate of ownership and tapped her nose playfully.

"That star is yours now. When I’m not around, it’ll watch over you for me."

Now, standing by her window, Celeste pulled back the curtain to look for her star.

But thick clouds covered the sky.

Her star was gone.

The next morning, the cryonics research team called.

"Miss Monroe," the director’s voice was professional yet firm, "we need you to come in for a physical examination."

"Is that really necessary?"

Celeste asked, a faint, bitter smile on her lips.

"I’m dying anyway. No amount of testing will change that."

"It’s standard procedure," the director explained.

"We need to determine the best freezing method and timing based on your condition. It’s to maximize your chances of survival. Please cooperate."

With no real reason to refuse, Celeste drove to the lab.

After an exhausting day of tests, the director handed her a thick packet of documents as she prepared to leave.

"These materials cover the design options for the cryo chamber and potential storage locations. Feel free to review them at your convenience."

Celeste nodded, murmured a quiet thank-you, and headed home, the documents clutched tightly in her arms.

As she stepped inside, she noticed the lights in the living room were on.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Was Damien home?

Despite everything, despite how cruelly he had treated her, she still wanted to see him.

Steadying her racing heart, she walked into the living room—only to freeze at the sight of Isolde Langley, dressed in a silk slip dress.

"Celeste, you’re back!"

Isolde greeted her warmly, moving toward her.

"Have you eaten? Damien’s in the kitchen cooking. Let me know what you’d like, and I’ll have him make it for you."

Her demeanor radiated confidence, every bit the lady of the house.

A pang of bitterness gripped Celeste’s chest.

She shook her head, managing a weak, "I’m not hungry."

Just then, Damien emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate of freshly cooked food.

"You’re just in time," he said, his voice steady but devoid of warmth.

"Isolde and I are engaged now. From today on, she’s the lady of this house. She’ll handle everything—big or small. Understand?"

Celeste lowered her gaze, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Understood."

He seemed surprised by her calm acceptance, as if he had expected her to react differently.

His dark eyes flickered with a rare hint of curiosity.

"Don’t be so harsh," Isolde said with a playful pout.

"You’re scaring her."

She turned to Celeste with a smile.

"Come on, let’s eat."

Before Celeste could respond, Isolde reached out to take her hand.

Startled, Celeste lost her grip on the stack of documents she was holding, scattering them across the floor.

Damien frowned, bending down to pick up one of the papers—a design sketch for a cryo chamber.

"What’s this?" he asked, his tone sharp.

Though her heart was pounding, Celeste kept her composure.

"It’s a design project for school," she said, her voice steady.

"Our professor assigned us to create a product of our choice over the summer."

"I decided to design a crystal coffin that could preserve a body indefinitely, so I printed some reference materials."

As a first-year design student, her explanation was plausible enough.

Damien’s face, however, remained clouded with suspicion.

"Celeste," he said coldly, "are you insane?"

Chapter 3

Celeste Monroe’s parents had been laid to rest by Damien Sterling himself.

On the day of their funeral, Celeste had locked herself in the closet again.

When Damien found her, he didn’t force her out. Instead, he opened the closet door and stepped inside to sit with her.

"Uncle Damien," she whispered, her tear-filled eyes searching his.

"Is it this dark and cold inside a coffin too?"

Her voice wavered as she continued, "I dreamed that Mom asked me to join her in the coffin. She said she’s so cold and scared being in there all alone…"

"That was just a dream," Damien said firmly.

"Don’t be afraid. You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let anyone take you from me."

She threw her arms around his neck, her voice soft against his ear.

"As long as you’re with me, Uncle Damien, I wouldn’t even be afraid of being locked in a coffin."

...

It seemed Damien hadn’t forgotten that moment.

Now, he had misunderstood.

He thought Celeste’s cryo-chamber designs were another veiled confession.

"If you don’t like it, I’ll change the design," Celeste said quietly.

"It’s just a summer project—no need to get upset."

Damien said nothing, his face cold and unreadable.

It was Isolde Langley who broke the tension, laughing as she chimed in, "Exactly! Change it to something more cheerful. Coffins are so morbid. A young woman like you shouldn’t be so dark—be more positive!"

Celeste bent down and gathered the scattered papers.

Then, under Damien’s watchful gaze, she walked over to the trash can and threw the entire stack away.

Only then did Damien’s expression soften slightly.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Celeste snuck back into the living room.

Quietly, she retrieved the discarded documents from the trash.

As she returned to her room, she froze. Isolde was stepping out of Damien’s bedroom, wearing a silk camisole.

Her shoulders and back were covered in faint, unmistakable marks.

Celeste didn’t need to guess what had happened between them.

She forced herself to look away, repeating in her mind: Don’t look.

Don’t think.

She’s his fiancée.

Whatever they do is normal.

It’s what’s supposed to happen.

Damien loves her.

She makes him happy.

That’s all that matters.

"Celeste," Isolde called out, her tone dripping with mockery, a stark contrast to her earlier warmth. "Why can’t you look me in the eye? Is it because you still can’t accept that Damien loves me and not you?"

Celeste lowered her gaze, her voice calm.

"No, I’ve already accepted it."

"Don’t lie to yourself," Isolde sneered, stepping closer.

"You think I can’t tell? The way you look at Damien—it’s not normal."

She laughed cruelly.

"You call him Uncle Damien, but he raised you. For all intents and purposes, he’s your adoptive father. And yet, you fell in love with him… Celeste, are you some kind of psycho?"

Celeste bit her lip so hard it nearly bled.

She didn’t respond.

Am I a psycho? 

she wondered.

No wonder Damien had been so disgusted with her once he realized her feelings.

To the outside world, this love was twisted—something shameful and unworthy.

Isolde’s voice turned even colder as she continued, her words calculated to wound.

"I heard you’re an orphan because your mother went crazy. She stabbed your father over a hundred times in the middle of the night and killed him."

"Makes sense now—you’re just like her. Psychotic tendencies must run in your family."

Celeste could tolerate insults aimed at her, but she couldn’t bear anyone desecrating her parents’ memory.

"Shut up!" she screamed, lunging forward and grabbing Isolde by the throat.

"You don’t know the full story. You have no right—"

Before she could finish, a sharp, cold voice cut through the air.

"Celeste, what do you think you’re doing?!"

Celeste turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, his eyes blazing with fury.