The Masterpiece of Leaving：Prepared A Perfect Stand-In For Him novel Chapter 8

The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal as Navier joined the line of passengers onto the plane.

As the aircraft lifted off, she watched the city shrink beneath her and silently whispered to herself:

"Goodbye forever, Lysander Vanderbilt."

She felt no curiosity about what might unfold at Dusktale Villa. Gazing out the window at the passing clouds, she felt lighter than she had in years.

Meanwhile, Celeste's lips curved into a smile she had practiced countless times. With elegant gentleness, she pressed her fingers against Lysander's temples.

"Lysander, you should stop drinking. You'll have a terrible headache."

Hearing that voice—familiar yet somehow different—Lysander froze. The whiskey bottle slipped from his hand, but he couldn't process what was happening.

Only when the bottle shattered on the floor, shards cutting into his leg, did the pain jolt him back to reality.

His mind reeled in confusion. Was this a dream? A hallucination? Or…?

"Ophelia? Is it… is itreally you? You came back… I waited for you. I never stopped waiting. Seven years, Ophelia—I never forgot you."

Lysander pulled Celeste into his arms with such force it was as if he wanted to merge her into his very being.

Overwhelmed with emotion, his voice trembled. He rested his chin in the crook of her neck as silent tears rolled down his cheeks, falling onto her skin—so cold they made her shiver.

Celeste felt revulsion churning in her stomach, but she played her part flawlessly. She clutched his shirt and gently patted his back.

"Yes, it's me. I’m back now. I know. I know you waited. So I fought hard to come back to you."

For a split second, Celeste feared he would see through the disguise.

But then—

Celeste recalled everything she'd memorized about Ophelia's preferences and nodded.

She sat on the swing while Lysander gently pushed her, gradually sending her higher and higher.

Her white dress billowed around her as she smiled with crinkled eyes, but she pleaded softly:

"Lysander, slower please. This height is enough."

But beneath the serene surface, her stomach churned with nausea.

She wasn't Ophelia. She didn't like swings.

She'd grown up in an impoverished trailer park on the outskirts of town. Even simple pleasures like riding bikes or playing with other kids had been beyond her reach.

The constant grind of minimum-wage jobs from her childhood had left her no time or energy for play.