It was a quiet summer evening in late July 2027 when the call came through. Celeste was on the back porch of her secluded cottage, overlooking the vast Scottish countryside, sipping tea as the wind whispered through the hills.
Liam was inside, tending to their garden vegetables, when her phone buzzed on the table beside her.
She rarely answered calls, especially now, but the name on the screen froze her in place. Riot's manager.
Taking a deep breath, she answered.
"Celeste," the voice said, soft and hesitant, "I… I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this. Riot… he's gone. He took his own life."
The words hit her like a freight train. She couldn't speak, couldn't move. Her throat tightened as the world around her blurred.
"When?" she finally managed.
"Yesterday. The funeral is next week in Los Angeles. I thought… I thought you should know."
The call ended soon after, leaving her in stunned silence. Memories of Riot flooded her mind—the chaos, the manipulation, the binding, the power he had over her, and the lengths she'd gone to free herself from him. And now, even in his death, he found a way to drag her back into the storm.
She didn't want to go to the funeral. She didn't want to face the world, to see the cameras and the prying eyes. But deep down, she knew she had to. Riot was a part of her story, for better or worse. She couldn't erase him, even if she had tried.
The funeral was held at a sprawling estate in the Hollywood Hills, the kind of event that screamed wealth and spectacle. Celebrities, industry giants, and media personalities flooded the venue, all eager to mourn—or capitalize on—the loss of one of their own.
Celeste arrived late, her face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed black hat and oversized sunglasses. She kept her head low as she slipped into the back of the crowd, hoping to go unnoticed. But she was Celeste—the world's most elusive and enigmatic superstar. There was no hiding her.
The whispers started almost immediately.
"Is that Celeste?"
"She hasn't been seen in years!"
"Why is she here? Didn't they have a falling out?"
As the eulogies began, Celeste found herself unable to focus. Her mind was a storm of emotions—grief, guilt, anger, and a sickening sense of inevitability. She had wanted to escape this world, to leave it all behind, but here she was, back in the heart of it, unable to break free.
When the service ended, the cameras descended. Paparazzi had been camped outside the estate, and as Celeste exited, the flashes lit up the evening sky like lightning.
The internet exploded.
Pictures of Celeste at Riot's funeral flooded social media, news outlets, and tabloids. Her name trended within minutes, and her 230 million Instagram followers bombarded her page with messages:
"Are you okay, Celeste?"
"Why were you there?"
"Did she have something to do with this?"
"She hasn't been seen in years, and now this?"
Conspiracy theories began to swirl. Some claimed she had orchestrated Riot's death, while others painted her as the grieving ex-lover. Fans speculated about her sudden reappearance, desperate for answers.
Back in Scotland, Celeste sat in her home office, scrolling through the storm of headlines and comments. Liam sat nearby, his quiet presence grounding her.
"They'll never leave you alone," he said gently, his voice heavy with understanding.
"I know," she whispered. "I thought… I thought I could disappear. That if I stayed away long enough, they'd forget about me. But they won't. They never will."
She set her phone down, her hands trembling.
"This is the sacrifice," she said, her voice breaking. "This is what I gave up everything for. My privacy, my peace… my life. No matter how far I run, no matter how long I stay away, I'll always be her. I'll always be Celeste. And the world will never let me forget it."
Liam reached out, taking her hand in his. "You can't change what you are to them. But you can choose what you are to yourself. You don't have to let them define you."
His words gave her a moment of clarity. She realized that her fame, her legacy, wasn't something she could shed like an old coat. It was a part of her, as much as her voice, her music, and her story.
For years, she had tried to run from it, to erase the legend she had created. But maybe she didn't need to run anymore. Maybe the real sacrifice wasn't her fame—it was her fear of it.
Celeste took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She wasn't ready to step back into the spotlight, but she wasn't going to let it control her anymore, either.
The world would always watch her, speculate about her, and demand pieces of her. But for now, she would give them only what she chose.
And as for the rest? That was hers to keep.
Or Was it….?