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."

When I arrived at Sacred Mercy, Margaret had been my only friend. She was the only one who dared to speak to me.

No one wanted to be associated with a girl who was found at a bridge about to end her life.

They believed I was a demon.

A demon of despair.

A lot of prayers were done on me, but even before then Margaret had talked to me. She had helped me bathe. Cleaned me up. Treated me like a human being.

Seeing her innocent green eyes filled with tears, begging me for a favor I could not fulfill, broke my heart.

"Celeste... you... you would rather see me thrown to him than take my place?" Her voice cracked, hands shaking.

I swallowed hard, my own hands trembling. "Margaret... what you're asking-"

"You're stronger than me!" she cut in, clutching at my sleeves. "You're always stronger. You can survive him. I can't. Please!"

She pressed her forehead to my shoulder like a child. "I've seen what he does. The other girls. They come back broken. Some don't come back at all. I'll die, Celeste. I swear I'll die."

Her fingers dug into my arms hard enough to bruise. "Please don't let them take me."

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. Why is it always me?

"What about me, Margaret?" My voice came out harsher than I meant. "Do you ever think of that? Lust put me in the position I'm in today. I cannot fall for it one more time. Even if you are my friend."

She flinched, but her grip didn't loosen. "I'm not asking you to enjoy it. I'm asking you to save me!"

"I've already been there," I whispered. "I've already lost everything. My mother. My family. Myself. I'm barely holding on, Margaret. If I go to him, it won't just be my body he takes. It'll be the last piece of me that's still alive."

She stared up at me, eyes shining with desperation. "Then let him take me instead?"

"No." I shook my head. "I won't choose for you. I won't condemn you. But I can't save you either."

"Celeste..." Her knees buckled. She sank down on the stone floor, clutching the hem of my habit. "Please. Please don't do this to me." Her voice broke into sobs. "You're the only one I have."

"I know," I said quietly. My throat burned. "And I'm sorry."

She grabbed my skirt like it was a lifeline. "You're my friend. You're my sister. You're supposed to protect me."

"I've tried," I whispered. "But I can't trade one death for another. Not again."

Her sobs filled the little storage room, bouncing off the stone walls. She clutched my legs, nails biting into my skin through the fabric. "Celeste, please. Please. I'll do anything. I'll take your chores for a month. I'll pray every night for your soul. Just please don't make me go to him."

I bent down, prying her hands from my skirt. "This isn't about chores or prayers." My fingers shook as I pulled free. "This is about surviving. And I can't die for you, Margaret."

She lifted her tear-streaked face to mine. "You'd let me die instead?"

Her words pierced me like a blade. I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to lie. But my mouth wouldn't open.

"I'm sorry," I managed. "I can't."

Her sob turned into a wail. She slumped fully to the floor, palms flat on the cold stone, head bowed. "You're cruel," she choked. "You're cruel. You're just like them. Just like everyone else. Selfish. We were told to be selfless like Jesus, but you can't even die for me. A friend. I hate you."

"I'm not any of those things," I said, but it sounded weak even to my own ears.

I turned toward the door walking fast.

Behind me, Margaret's voice rose, ragged and desperate. "Celeste! Don't walk out on me! Please! Don't leave me!"

I stopped with my hand on the handle, my back to her. My eyes burned, but I couldn't look at her. If I looked, I'd break.

"I'm sorry," I whispered again. "I can't save you."

"Celeste! Please! Please!" Her sobs turned into raw begging, her fingers scraping against the stone as if she could drag herself into my shadow.

I pushed the door open. The hallway beyond was dim and cold.

Behind me, Margaret collapsed fully, her forehead against the floor, wailing. "You're the only one I had," she sobbed. "You're the only one I had."

I stepped out, pulling the door shut before her voice could shatter me completely. My hands shook as I straightened my veil, the fabric damp where her tears had soaked it.

In the silence of the hallway, my own voice barely reached my ears.

"I can't," I whispered. "I can't die for her."

But the words didn't make the guilt any lighter.

.

.

The truth about Sacred Mercy had revealed itself slowly over the years.

On the surface, we were what we appeared to be: a convent dedicated to serving God through prayer and charitable works. We tended the sick in the attached hospice. We taught catechism to local children. We maintained the chapel and gardens with devotion that looked genuine because for many of us, it was.

But beneath the surface-literally beneath, in the labyrinth of rooms that stretched under the chapel-Sacred Mercy served a different purpose entirely.

I'd discovered it by accident two years into my time here. Late one night, unable to sleep through another nightmare, I'd gone to the chapel to pray. Voices had echoed up from somewhere below, followed by the distinct click of heels on stone–shoes no nun would wear.

Curiosity had led me down a spiral staircase I'd never noticed before, hidden behind a door that usually stayed locked. The corridor at the bottom smelled of expensive perfume and cigar smoke instead of incense and beeswax.

Through a crack in a door, I'd seen Sister Anna-a quiet woman who claimed to have a weak constitution and often missed morning prayers-kneeling before a man in an expensive suit. But she wasn't praying.

The room was filled with smacking sounds. Her mouth dripped of saliva as she took in the man's cock. Hardened and wet. He had held her hair tightly, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. Her breasts were dangling and hitting his thighs as she sucked his dick.

I was surprised. It was unexpected, but I had felt a slight wetness seeping into my panties. I had wanted to watch and shove my fingers into that aching spot between my legs.

But guilt came in and I fled back upstairs and vomited in the chapel bathroom until my ribs ached.

The next morning, Mother Superior had called me to her office.

She'd known. Of course she'd known. Nothing happened in Sacred Mercy without her knowledge.

"You seem troubled, Sister Celeste," she'd said, her voice pleasant as poisoned honey. "Did you sleep poorly?"

I'd kept my eyes down, hands clasped. "Yes, Mother Superior."

"Nightmares again?" A pause. "Or perhaps... curiosity about things that don't concern you?"

My blood had run cold.

She'd walked around her desk, her fingers trailing along the wood. "Sacred Mercy provides many services, child. Some visible, some... less so. We care for souls in various ways. The Church's work takes many forms."

"I don't understand, Mother Superior."

"I think you do." Her hand had gripped my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. "And I think you're clever enough to know that some knowledge is dangerous. That doors left open in the night are invitations-or tests."

She'd released me, returning to her desk. "You've been exemplary these past two years. Devout. Obedient. Broken enough to be useful, but not so broken you're a liability. I'd hate for that to change."

The threat had been clear.

So I'd learned to be more careful. More invisible. I avoided the spiral staircase. I didn't ask questions when sisters disappeared for days at a time and returned hollow-eyed. I kept my head down during the evenings when expensive cars pulled up to the service entrance.

For six years, I'd survived by being overlooked.

I'd watched other girls-some who'd come after me-get selected for "evening services." I'd seen how they changed. How Sister Anna developed a nervous tick. How Sister Therese started hoarding sleeping pills. How Sister Claire simply vanished one day, and we were told she'd been transferred to another convent.

We all knew what "transferred" meant.

The system was simple, really. Mother Superior identified which girls could be used-the desperate ones, the ones with nowhere else to go, the ones too broken or afraid to run. She matched them to clients based on preferences and paid obscene amounts of money that went straight to the Church's coffers.

In return, the Church looked the other way. Cardinals received their cut. Local authorities were paid to ignore anything suspicious. And Sacred Mercy maintained its reputation as a beacon of holiness while selling women to wealthy men who wanted to defile it.

I'd avoided selection by being invisible. Too haunted. Too unstable.

I was the kind of broken that wasn't appealing to men who wanted fresh innocence to corrupt.

Until now.

I'd barely made it back to my cell when footsteps echoed in the corridor.

"Sister Celeste?" Two junior nuns stood in my doorway, their faces carefully blank. "Mother Superior has requested your presence. Immediately."

My stomach dropped.

"Now?" My voice came out too thin.

"Now."

They flanked me as we walked through the convent, though they didn't touch me. They didn't need to. Everyone knew you didn't refuse Mother Superior's summons.

Her office was on the second floor, overlooking the gardens that made Sacred Mercy look so peaceful from the outside. She sat behind her massive desk, fingers steepled, expression serene.

"Sister Celeste. Please, sit."

I lowered myself into the chair across from her, hands folded in my lap to hide their shaking.

Mother Superior studied me for a long moment, her pale eyes calculating. "I understand Sister Margaret came to you this morning with a rather... emotional request."

My throat tightened. "Yes, Mother Superior."

"And you refused her."

It wasn't a question. Of course she knew. She knew everything.

"I..." I swallowed. "I couldn't-"

"Couldn't?" Her eyebrow arched. "Or wouldn't?"

Before I could answer, a sound echoed from somewhere below.

Wailing. Angry, pained and desperate sobbing that I recognized immediately.

Margaret.

"She's been like that for an hour," Mother Superior said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Quite distressing for the other sisters."

The sobbing rose to a shriek, then dissolved into broken pleas.

"Please... please don't make me... please..."

Mother Superior's lips thinned. "You see the position you've put me in, Sister Celeste. I have a commitment to fulfill. A very important client who specifically requested someone pure. Someone untouched." Her gaze sharpened. "Someone like Margaret. Or like you."

My breath caught.

"I'm not asking you to volunteer," she continued smoothly. "I'm simply observing that you have a choice to make. The Bible tells us to love thy neighbor as thyself. To bear one another's burdens. Galatians 6:2-'Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.'"

She opened a drawer, pulling out a leather-bound Bible. Her fingers traced the gold-edged pages.

"Matthew 25:40-'Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'" She looked up. "Margaret is your sister in Christ. She's begging for your help. And you, who claim to seek redemption for your sins, refuse to offer even this small mercy?"

The manipulation was elegant. Cruel. Effective.

"I don't...want to," I whispered.

"Of course you don't." Mother Superior's smile was cold. "Sacrifice is never pleasant. That's what makes it sacrifice."

Margaret's screaming grew louder, more desperate.

"Mother Superior, please-"

"I'm not a cruel woman, Celeste." She closed the Bible with a soft thud. "But I am a practical one. Someone will go to Mr. Salvatore tonight. It will be Margaret, who clearly cannot handle what's required. Or it will be you, who at least has the strength to survive it."

"You're asking me to-"

"I'm asking you to be Christian." Her voice hardened. "To show the compassion and selflessness you claim to have learned in your years here. To prove that your mother's death taught you something about putting others before yourself."

The words hit like a slap.

She knew exactly where to strike.

"Of course," Mother Superior continued, leaning back in her chair, "if you refuse, I'll respect that choice. I'll send Margaret. And when she comes back broken–if she comes back–you'll have to live with that too. Another person destroyed because Celeste Moreau chose herself over someone who needed her."

My hands clenched in my lap until my nails drew blood.

"That is, assuming you can live with it," she added casually. "You're already so fragile. So haunted. I'd hate to see what another failure might do to you. Father Benedict might find you on that bridge again. And this time, he might not arrive in time. We wouldn't want to bury a sister, now would we?"

The threat was wrapped in concern, but it was a threat nonetheless.

Margaret's wailing reached a crescendo, then cut off into ragged sobbing.

Mother Superior stood, smoothing her habit. "I'll give you ten minutes to decide. But know this, Sister Celeste–whatever Mother Superior says in this convent, goes. That's always been the way. And it always will be."

She walked to the window, her back to me. "Ten minutes. Then I'll send someone to collect either you or Margaret for preparation. Choose wisely."

I sat frozen in the chair, Margaret's broken sobs echoing through the walls, Mother Superior's words wrapping around my throat like a noose.

And I knew–I knew–that no matter what I chose, I was already condemned.

I closed my eyes tightly.

It was a hard place but her words kept on ringing in my head.

"Selfish."

I had left mama to die. Now...Margeret

And it would be my fault. I would be...the reason again.

The tears stung, biting into my eye lids until a single tear dropped down my cheek.

"I–would–do it."

"Very well," Mother Superior said without turning. "Sister Celeste, you shall please Dante Salvatore tonight. Go prepare yourself. The car arrives at sunset."