FreeGoodNovelChapter 3
Through the haze of my tears, | thought | saw him.
The man who had once heldclose at my father’s funeral, his arms a shelter as my world crumbled.
**Celeste, | will give you a home. Everything | have belongs to you.“*
His voice had been so steady that day, his embrace so sure, as if | had been his entire world.
What a cruel illusion.
Now, as | laid Atlas onto our bed, | no longer moved with the tenderness | once did. | didn’t take off his shoes. |
didn’t press a glass of water to his lips, murmuring words of comfort.
| simply turned away.
For the first tin five years, | shut myself inside the guest room.
That night, | lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every memory of his love-every soft look, every
whispered promise.
And wondering if any of it had ever been real.
Morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room.
| opened my eyes to find Atlas already watching me. His gaze was gentle, his expression full of quiet affection, as
if
nothing had changed.
He leaned down, pressing a slow, familiar kiss to my forehead.
“Celeste, were you upset last night?” His voice was soft, laced with concern. “I'm sorry-1 had too much to drink. I
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtpromise it won't happen again.”
His tenderness was effortless, the sas it had always been.
| gave a quiet hum in response, barely audible, then slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. The moment the
door shut behind me, | turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over my fingers.
Then, with slow deliberation, | pressed my damp palms to my forehead, wiping away the lingering warmth of his
kiss.
Breakfast was already laid out when | stepped into the dining room.
Once, a sight like this would have madehappy. Atlas always prepared my favorites-meticulously plated,
arranged with care.
But now, after reading his diary, after seeing the truth spelled out so cruelly in his own words...
06:50
Seven Years of Love. Seven Minutes
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Chapter 3
| couldn’t even muster the appetite to eat. Because | knew now. These weren’t my favorite dishes. They were
lvy’s.
The sound of keys turning in the front door madelook up.
The door swung open, and Ivy stepped inside, her white dress flowing as she moved through my has though
she belonged there.
She walked to the table without hesitation, sliding into a chair across from me, her smile polite, effortless.
“Celeste, | hope I'm not intruding,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “Atlas and | have a photoshoot this morning.
He toldto cover for breakfast first.”
| didn’t respond. My gaze had already locked onto something else.
A keychain.
Dangling from her fingertips-identical to the one | carried in my bag.
Atlas must have noticed the shift in my expression because he immediately leaned in, his voice low, reassuring.
“Celeste, Ivy is our closest friend,” he murmured. “It’s normal for her to have a key to our home...”
His voice trailed off, cut short by his own instinct.
Across the table, Ivy had just picked up a glass of soy milk. Atlas was on his feet in an instant, moving without
thought.
“Ivy, you can’t drink this.” His voice was sharp, urgent. “How many times have | told you?”
Ivy stilled, then let out a soft laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You're right,” she murmured, her tone teasing, affectionate. “Thank God, | got you to remind me.”
Their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them. Something too deep, too natural, but had nothing
to do
with me.
| pushed back my chair, the sound echoing in the quiet room. I didn’t want to be here anymore.
| was halfway to the door when Ivy called out again.
“Celeste,” she said, tilting her head in that seffortless way. “You're good at photography, right? Could my
pictures today? | don’t trust the new photographer.”
Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏm
you
take
My fingers clenched. Since my father’s passing, | hadn't touched a camera.
Not once.
Because the moment I did, | would think of him-his steady hands guiding mine, his patient voice teaching me
how
to fra shot, his warmth as he stood beside me.
Son Years Love Seven Mores
Chapter 3
Atlas knew this. He had locked all my cameras away, told| didn’t have to force myself, promised that he
would
wait until | was ready.
But now-before | could even refuse, Atlas placed a hand on my back, gently usheringforward.
“Celeste,” he said, almost apologetically, “Ivy gets carsick. Let's not make things difficult for her, okay? You can
sit in
the back today.”
A quiet, bitter laugh nearly escaped me.
He had forgotten something—I was the one who got carsick.
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