My Sister Stole My Mate And I Let Her (Seraphina) novel Chapter 275

Chapter 275: Chapter 275 POOR CELESTE

CELESTE’S POV

The treatment room was as pristine as everything else in Catherine’s villa. White walls. Soft lighting. Glass panels humming faintly with power. The scent of metal beneath the sterile floral overlay.

The chair sat at its center, surrounded by arcane instrumentation and sleek modern tech—a marriage of magic and science that made my skin prickle.

I lay back on it while technicians moved around me, attaching leads, adjusting settings, murmuring numbers I couldn’t understand.

Catherine remained at my side, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, grounding me—or so it was meant to feel.

When the headpiece descended, unease settled into my bones.

I hated this room.

I hated how small it made me feel.

The room I’d been held in had been small, too. Concrete walls closed in on either side, stained dark in places I refused to look too closely at.

The ceiling was low here, too. Designed to make you hunch. To shrink.

‘You’re safe, Celeste.’ I hissed internally. ‘You’re not there anymore.’

Straps fastened around my wrists and ankles—not tight, not painful. Gentle. Considerate.

“You’re doing very well,” Catherine murmured close to my ear. “Much better than the last session.”

“I don’t feel any better,” I said flatly.

Her smile was indulgent. “Patience, dear. Remember?”

I pursed my lips. “I remember.”

She gently smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “That’s my girl. Now, relax. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

My godmother watched me the way one observes a delicate machine—attentive, patient, always anticipating the next malfunction.

I felt it most in the silences between us. In the way her gaze lingered just a fraction too long after I finished speaking, as if she were cataloging not my words but the subtext behind them.

The cadence of my breathing. The steadiness of my hands.

Once—before everything—I would have found it comforting.

Catherine had been the adult I trusted most besides my mother. The woman who smelled of expensive perfume and ocean air, who brought gifts back from cities I’d only ever dreamed of visiting.

The one who spoke to me like I was already grown, already important. Already destined.

It made sense that after Kieran’s betrayal ten years ago, I would run to her.

It made sense that she was the one who’d saved me from the hell I’d found myself in.

But now, under her meticulous gaze, unease twisted in my gut.

The timing gnawed at me.

Catherine had sensed my distress—that was how she put it, lips pursed in concern, hand warm where it cupped my cheek when I first woke on a soft, warm bed on her island.

We were connected. She’d felt a disturbance. A pull. A wrongness that demanded investigation.

And yet she hadn’t called my parents. Not until my mother called her.

She hadn’t alerted the pack. Hadn’t triggered alarms or summoned help the moment she realized I had been taken.

Instead, she’d arranged a stand-in—simple AI technology. A version of me to be seen in public places, someone to create a paper trail just convincing enough to buy time.

Someone to talk to my mother and reassure my family.

“For your privacy,” she’d said smoothly. “For your recovery.”

At the time, I’d been too weak, too shattered, to question it.

Now, the explanation tasted sour in my mouth.

It wasn’t only the delay. It was the surgical precision, the way every detail was managed quietly, efficiently, without a hint of panic.

As if she’d anticipated not only my disappearance, but the aftermath. As if this had always been one possible outcome, already slotted neatly into place.

That thought sent a chill racing over my skin.

But I didn’t chase it.

Because chasing it meant asking questions I wasn’t ready for answers to. It meant plunging back into the why.

Why was I taken? What did they want?

What would have happened if—

Let’s face it, no matter what happened, Catherine was all I had now.

She was the reason I had a shot at returning to my old self.

I didn’t want to return to Los Angeles as something fragile and pitiful, especially not now. Not after Sera. Not after the LST championship.

Not after the world had watched my sister rise and rewrite the Lockwood narrative around her strength, her resilience, her triumph.

Not after Kieran had fucking left me for her.

I could already hear the comparisons, whispered and overt.

Sera fought her way back. She triumphed.

Poor Celeste...broke.

No.

I refused to hand them that satisfaction.

And even if I did return, what could the Lockwoods offer me?

I was suddenly as pathetic as my sister—my wolf was gone. For real this time.

And the only person who could help me get Kharis back was Catherine.

My parents had tried everything with Sera. Rituals. Specialists. Therapies that promised gentle healing and delivered nothing. Years of patience that amounted to prolonged suffering.

Soft solutions for hard problems.

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