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CELESTE
There is no escaping choices. They swirl around us, lurking inside life lessons and simple mundane actions alike. Empowering? Sometimes. Exhausting? Definitely.
Eat the forbidden fruit or ignore the slithering snake licking at your neck.
Never look back or turn to salt.
Obey the king’s absurd edict or be devoured by lions for your convictions.
No wonder children harbor so much anxiety—that was just first grade in Catholic school.
None of which prepares us for the real choices. The everyday plagues that shape and mold and define. The ones that tag you for life, hanging around like a strung-out stoner.
Forget going to Heaven or Hell.
Being or not being.
I’m talking about big, important choices.
Which is precisely what I’m facing in the here and now—tweed blazer or no tweed blazer?
Maybe that doesn’t rank up there with the existential questions put forth by Socrates, Nietzsche, and Confucius, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that life has a way of swallowing us.
Youth. Passion. Purpose.
Loved ones.
But we always have a choice in whether we let it—or so I delude myself into believing.
Which brings me back to the tweed because I’m staring at a text from my best friend, making that the consideration above all others.
Ivy: Be ready to twist. You’re Mia Wallace.
Ivanna Kingston Wells—or Ivy, as she prefers—has always been my missing piece, the one who sees. She nearly lost her life last year and is now weeks from birthing a new one.
I’d do anything for her, least of all forgoing my Dolce & Gabbana jacket. Sacrifices. So, at present, the only choice that matters is the one that will carve these coming moments with her into my soul.
Shimmying out of my pencil skirt in favor of my black leggings and ankle boots, I leave my white button-down on and tuck the blazer into my suitcase, sending off my confirmation.
Me: Dance good, Vincent.
She hearts my response as my father’s plane finally rolls to a stop at the private airfield, and I prepare to disembark. While my curves are decidedly un-Uma Thurman—the actress I’ll be portraying—I use a clip to fold my long, dark hair up so it’s chin length. Ivy will be impressed with the commitment.
Hemmed in by my security team—Rex, Dante, Keith, and my driver, Arnold—I trail down the steps to the waiting BMW XM. Having four guards is a bit overkill, but my father has been ridiculously overprotective this past year, ever since he discovered that Ivy and her husband, Wells, are two of the five leaders for KORT—the country’s most powerful cabal. It’s the same cabal that The Order—the secret society my father is a member of—serves, so his paranoia shouldn’t be newfound.
It was an eye-opening period for us both. Up until then, I believed my father simply owned a successful home-development business. He does, but it’s also a front for shady dealings, whatever they may be.
Once I’m settled in the back of the SUV, I crack the window and take a breath. The air is sixty degrees, crisp with a damp, piney musk. January in Louisiana is far different than my hometown of Royal Oaks, Ohio. The terrain is barren, but less bleak than the frigid, muddy snow I’m accustomed to. This land is still alive, thriving with sunshine and a hint of the lush greenery it flaunts in warmer months. Southern plantations and naked weeping willows whisper over swampy ponds. I can see why Ivy chose to move to New Orleans—well, thirty minutes outside of it.
My phone rings when we’re still a few minutes away. Not recognizing the number, I silence it and wait for the beep, signaling a message.
The voice mail plays on my Bluetooth as I keep my gaze on the blurring scenery.
“Hi, Celeste,” the smooth drawl croons. “This is Scott Filmore. Your grandfather may have mentioned I’d be calling. These things always feel a bit awkward, especially when the family line is involved.”
He chuckles knowingly, and I smile, wondering who roped him into this.
“In spite of the unnatural meeting, I’ve heard a lot about you and would love the opportunity to treat you to dinner. It seems our travel destinations may align this month. After you internet-stalk me, call me back.” His voice drops an octave, a rough bedroom tenor. “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, Miss Carver.”
