Chapter 2 SIX YEARS LATER

Celeste's POV

I have always wondered...where would I be if I died?

Would I be with the devil? In his arms suffering or would I be in heaven with mama and Jesus?

Does heaven even...exists?

I bit my lips, my teeth grazing the soft flesh.

The thoughts of evil were here once again. The thought of doubt and spite for me to...no. I MUST not say the word.

My hand shook as I held the rosary tighter.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

My voice joins fifty others in the morning rosary, the words automatic after six years of repetition.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

The prayer cycles again.

Rosary beads click softly as we kneel in dawn light filtering through stained glass. I keep my eyes closed, my lips moving with muscle memory while my mind drifts back to why I had another sleepless night.

The bridge.

Always the bridge in my nightmare.

I could still see the water crashing against the waves, the supermoon shining on me. I hadn't given it a second thought, and...I had let myself fall, deep into the abyss–

"The morning prayers are concluded. Proceed quietly to your assignments." Mother Superior's voice cut through my thoughts.

I bowed towards the altar, veils brushing my shoulders, then slipped past the dispersing sisters and made my way to the small confessional booth tucked in the chapel's corner.

My hands shake as I adjust my veil, smoothing the fabric out of nervousness.

The booth is barely wider than my shoulders, dark wood panels on three sides rising to a low ceiling.

A wooden screen separates me from the priest's side-I can make out his silhouette through the latticed carving, but not his face. The only light comes from a small bulb overhead, casting everything in dim amber. The cushion beneath my knees is worn velvet, faded from red to something closer to rust.

There's a narrow shelf at chest height, smooth from countless hands that have gripped it during confession. The smelled faintly of old wood and, incense that's seeped into the grain over decades.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession."

Through the screen, I see Father Benedict's silhouette shift. He's been the convent's confessor for as long as I've been here. The only priest who knows my whole story.

The only one who saved me when saving seemed impossible.

"Go on, child."

His voice is kind. It always has been.

Even that night.

"I had the nightmare again." The words tumble out in a whisper. "The same one. But this time it was different."

I close my eyes, seeing it all again. The blood on my hands, dark and wet. Standing on that bridge-the same bridge where Julien kissed me, where I chose pleasure over my mother's life. But in the dream, I don't walk away. I don't go home to find her dead.

I jump.

The fall is endless. The water rushes up to meet me, black and welcoming, and when it closes over my head, there's no pain. Just silence. Peace. The kind of peace I haven't felt since I was sixteen and stupid and selfish.

"I died in the dream," I continue, my voice barely audible. "And when I woke up, I wished... I wished it had been real."

The silence stretches between us.

"These thoughts," Father Benedict says carefully. "Are they only in dreams? Or do they visit you during waking hours as well?"

My throat tightens. "Sometimes. When I'm scrubbing the floors. Or during compline. I think about what it would feel like. To just... stop."

"Sister Celeste." His voice carries a weight I recognize. Concern. "We've spoken of this before. The night I found you-"

"I remember."

How could I forget?

It was six months after Mama's funeral.

Six months of Papa refusing to look at me. Six months of Liora's hatred burning holes through our apartment.

Six months of waking up every morning knowing I was a murderer who would never face justice because there was no law against choosing lust over love.

I'd gone to the bridge wearing my nightgown, just like in my dreams now. The water had looked so dark, so welcoming. I'd climbed onto the ledge, my bare feet slipping on the cold stone.

One step. That's all it would take. One step and the guilt would drown with me.

"Jumping doesn't erase guilt, child."

Father Benedict's voice had cut through my despair like a blade. I'd turned to find him standing there in his cassock, his face lined with compassion I didn't deserve.

"It just passes your pain to those left behind," he'd continued, moving slowly toward me like I was a wild animal that might spook. "Your father. Your sister. They're suffering too. Your death won't heal them. It will only add another burden to carry."

"You don't understand...They won't...they...hate me," I'd whispered, tears streaming down my face. "They should hate me. I killed her."

"Then live with it." His words were gentle but firm. "Live with the guilt. Let it teach you something. Let it make you someone who never makes that mistake again."

He'd offered his hand.

And I'd taken it.

He brought me here, to Sacred Mercy. Promised me that behind these walls, I could transform my suffering into service. That penance through prayer and dedication could give my mother's death meaning.

I believed him.

For six years, I've believed him.

But lately, the walls feel less like sanctuary and more like a tomb.

"The thoughts are getting worse," I admit now, my fingers twisting the rosary beads until they bite into my palm. "Not better. I pray and I work and I serve, but the guilt is still there. The blood is still on my hands. And I'm so tired, Father. I'm so tired of carrying it."

"This is why you must not give in to despair," Father Benedict says. "Despair is a sin against hope, against the belief that God can redeem even our worst failures. You are not beyond forgiveness, Celeste. You only believe you are."

I want to believe him.

God, I want to.

But forgiveness feels like a foreign language I'll never speak.

"Thank you, Father," I murmur, because that's what you say. Even when nothing helps. Even when the darkness is patient and knows it will win eventually.

"For your penance-"

A sharp knock on the confessional door makes us both freeze.

"Sister Celeste?" A voice hisses through the wood. "Sister Celeste, are you in there?"

I recognize the panicked whisper immediately. Sister Margaret.

"I'm in confession-"

"I need to talk to you. Now. Please."

Father Benedict sighs. "We'll continue this later. Go. But Celeste?" His silhouette leans closer to the screen. "If the thoughts become overwhelming, you come to me immediately. Do you understand? Day or night."

"Yes, Father."

I slip out of the booth to find Margaret pacing in the narrow corridor, her face pale and blotchy with tears. Her veil in disarray. Her hands shake as she grabs my arm.

"What's wrong?" I ask, though I already feel dread pooling in my stomach.

She pulls me further from the chapel, into one of the empty storage rooms where we sometimes hide from Mother Superior's assignments. When the door closes behind us, she collapses against the wall, mascara-forbidden, but she wears it anyway-streaming down her chubby cheeks.

"I got chosen," she whispers.

My eyes widened in shock.

Chosen. We all know what that means. The whispered rumors about the "special services" certain sisters provide. The well-dressed men who arrive after dark. The girls who return from those encounters are different-hollowed out, something essentially carved away.

"You...what?! "

"For tonight." Margaret's voice cracks. "Mother Superior called me to her office this morning. There's a client. An important one. He requested..." She swallows hard. "He requested someone untouched. Someone pure."

My stomach turns.

"Margaret, you don't have to-"

"I don't have a choice!" She grabs my shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You don't understand. This client isn't like the others. The last girl they sent to him came back and couldn't speak for weeks. Just sat in her cell, staring at nothing, until Mother Superior sent her away somewhere."

I've heard those stories too. Whispered in the dormitory after lights out. Girls who vanished. Girls who came back broken or never at all

"They say he's a monster," Margaret continues, her eyes wild with terror. "A devil with the face of an angel. Dante Salvatore. He's mafia, Celeste. He kills people. And Mother Superior is sending me to him like I'm some kind of-" Her voice breaks into a sob.

I pull her into my arms, feeling her whole body shake against mine. This is wrong. All of it is wrong. Sacred Mercy is supposed to be a sanctuary, not a marketplace.

But I've always known the truth, haven't I? Ever since I discovered what really happens in the rooms beneath the chapel.

"What did I do to deserve this?"

"Oh Margaret..." I held her tighter, her tears sipping into my dark veil. "I...am so sorry...I wish there was a way out of this."

"I–Please," Margaret pulls back, gripping my face between her hands. "Please, Celeste. You have to take my place."

The request steals the air from my lungs.

"What?"

"You're pure. You're perfect for what he wants. And you're stronger than me. You can survive this. I can't." Tears pour down her face. "Please. You're my only friend here. You're the only one who's ever shown me kindness. I'm begging you."

I stare at her, my mind reeling.

Take her place. Go to this monster. Let him do whatever he wants with my body.

It was an insane request.

Every instinct screams to refuse.

But then I see it-that look in Margaret's eyes. The same terror I saw in Mama's face when the fever had taken hold and she knew, she knew she was dying.

I failed Mama when she needed me.

Can I fail Margaret too?

"Please," she whispers again. "Please, Celeste. I'll owe you everything. Anything. Just please don't make me go to him."

My hands tremble as I adjust my veil, the fabric suddenly too tight, too suffocating.

This is insane. This is asking to be destroyed.

But isn't that what I've wanted? In my darkest moments, in my dreams where I jump from the bridge and finally find peace?

Maybe this is another kind of dying.

Maybe this is the penance I've been searching for.

I sighed to myself. "I am sorry Margaret. But I cannot."