The moon had been full that night.
Serena remembered that clearly — a glowing coin in a velvet sky, impossibly still.
Her mother always said, "When the moon is full, angels can see us better."
But no angels came.
She was sixteen. Old enough to drive, but her mother still insisted on picking up late orders together — "Just for the company," she'd say.
That night, Serena sat quietly in the back seat of their battered Toyota, earbuds in, sketchpad on her lap, the scent of buttercream clinging to her clothes.
She wasn't drawing anymore. Just tracing the same line over and over.
In the front, Amalia Aguilar had just finished her shift at the bakery. Her apron was dusted in flour, and she was humming a soft, off-key Kundiman while they waited for the mansion's iron gates to open.
A custom cake rested on the passenger seat — delicate roses piped in ivory, gold flakes like stardust. A rush order for the Lagrimas family. They always paid instant but, always called last-minute.
"Good business is polite, even to the impolite," her mother had said.
Then came the sound.
A screech of tires.
A shout.
Laughter — high, careless, cruel.
A silver sports car tore around the bend as if the world owed it the road.
Serena barely had time to lift her head.
Headlights.
A flash of her mother's profile — alarmed, hand raised instinctively.
Impact.
The world crumpled. Metal groaned and glass exploded. The cake box flew forward, burst open — frosting and sponge and color smeared across the road like blood.
Then — silence.
Serena's ears rang. Her vision swam, she kicked open the car door, shoes forgotten and legs shaking.
Her mother lay broken on the asphalt. Still breathing. Barely.
"S-Serena… stay…"
But Serena couldn't stay.
Because the silver car hadn't vanished.
It had stopped.
A woman stepped out. Tall. Slender. White sequined dress glinting like ice. She sipped from a champagne flute, drunk and bored.
Serena stood frozen. Sixteen and splattered with blood, her whole life crashing in one breath.
The woman stared down at the body.
Then looked away.
A young man, red-faced and sweating, stumbled from the passenger seat and yanked her back toward the car.
"Get in. Now. No cameras. No police. You didn't see this, you hear me? You didn't see this."
They drove off.
And Serena, trembling on the concrete, knelt beside her mother. One hand pressed to her chest. Still warm. Still hers.
Until she wasn't.
The sirens came too late.
The apology never came at all.
Two days later after the incident, the hallway outside the hospital morgue smelled like bleach and grief.
Serena stood beside her aunt, numb, staring ahead as the adults signed papers and spoke in euphemisms.
They said it was an accident.
They said the driver was "unknown."
They said she shouldn't have been there that late.
But Serena knew what she saw.
White dress. Red lips. A glass of champagne.
And a face — untouched, unfazed, unforgettable.
She burned that face into her memory.
Not from fear.
But because it was the last thing her mother saw before the world went dark.
That day, Serena Aguilar — daughter, student, bakery girl — ceased to exist.
And in her place, Celeste Dela Peña began.
Not with screams.
Not with bullets.
With patience.
With elegance.
With a hunger disguised as grace.
Back on the present day, the city glittered beyond the penthouse windows — clean lines, bright lights, the illusion of order.
Celeste sat at her vanity, the locket at her throat open in her palm.
Inside: a photograph of Amalia, smiling through flour-dusted cheeks.
"One by one… I'll make them remember." Her whisper was steady. Reverent.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Adrian Verano:
Meeting tomorrow, 11 a.m. We'll go over the plans… and a few details I've been meaning to ask you.
Celeste stared at the message for a long moment.
Then typed: I'm sure you'll ask exactly what you need — and exactly what you shouldn't.
And hit send.