Chapter 1 : The night of celebration

The Luxe Horizon sailed across the Pacific, its golden lights gleaming against the dark, endless sea. The luxury cruise ship was a floating palace, hosting the kind of celebration only the rich and powerful could afford. Tonight, it belonged to Celeste Harrington.

Inside the grand ballroom, chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the glittering guests. Laughter and conversation swirled through the air like champagne bubbles, mingling with the smooth notes of a jazz band playing in the background. The elite of Hollywood had gathered here to celebrate one woman—Celeste, the reigning queen of the silver screen, a woman who had dominated the industry for decades. She stood in the center of the room, poised and radiant in a crimson gown that clung to her frame, her dark eyes scanning the crowd with the grace of someone who knew she was the star of the night.

Her lips curled into a smile as people raised their glasses in her honor. She had spent years perfecting this look—elegant, untouchable, powerful. Yet, even in this moment of glory, she could feel it. The weight of unseen eyes. The quiet hum of unspoken resentment. The undercurrent of something that didn’t belong at a celebration.

Victor Lancaster, the billionaire producer who had arranged this extravagant event, stepped forward, raising his glass. His voice carried effortlessly over the room. “To Celeste Harrington! A woman who has graced our screens for decades, stolen our hearts, and—if the rumors are true—perhaps even broken a few.” A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd, some genuine, some laced with envy. Celeste smiled, lifting her glass in acknowledgment.

As she brought the champagne to her lips, someone brushed past her—so close that she felt the heat of their body against hers. A whisper, barely audible, ghosted against her ear.

“Enjoy your last toast.”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. A sharp chill prickled at the back of her neck. She turned swiftly, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. The sea of guests blurred before her eyes. Laughter. Clinking glasses. The murmur of conversations. No one was looking at her. No one seemed out of place.

Had she imagined it?

She exhaled slowly, willing herself to relax. It was probably nothing. A joke. A trick of her own mind, playing with her after one too many drinks. She had spent too many years in this industry to be shaken by rumors and whispers.

Still, the unease clung to her, refusing to be ignored.

The celebration stretched deep into the night, the ballroom a whirlwind of elegance and excess. Guests danced, drank, and indulged in whispered conversations laced with secrets. Celeste continued to smile, pose, and thank those who came to honor her, but the nagging feeling of being watched never left her. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against her skin.

By the time the crowd began to thin, she had had enough. She needed air.

Stepping onto the upper deck, she inhaled deeply, letting the salty breeze cool her heated skin. The ocean stretched before her, vast and endless, swallowing all light beyond the ship. The party noise faded behind her, leaving only the rhythmic crash of waves against the hull. For the first time that night, she allowed herself to drop the act.

Alone.

Or so she thought.

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. Behind her.

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned her head, her fingers gripping the railing. The deck was empty. Just shadows and moonlight. The wind whispered through the stillness, but no one was there.

A rustling sound. Near the lifeboats.

Her pulse quickened. “Who’s there?” Her voice was steady, controlled, but inside, something twisted. She was not easily spooked. Years in the industry had taught her to handle threats, rumors, even stalkers. But this was different. This wasn’t fan obsession or industry politics.

This felt personal.

The silence stretched. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. And then—a soft click.

The sound sent a bolt of fear through her. A door closing? A latch unlocking? She stepped forward hesitantly, her heels clicking against the deck. The shadows seemed to shift around her. The ocean below roared louder, its depths yawning, waiting.

And then—nothing.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. She was being paranoid. It was the champagne. The exhaustion. The paranoia that came with knowing too many people wanted her throne. With a final glance at the empty deck, she turned and walked away, dismissing the moment as a trick of the mind.

She never saw the figure that lingered in the darkness. Watching. Waiting.

The night passed. The ship sailed on, steady and undisturbed.

Morning came with the soft glow of sunlight breaking over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. The Luxe Horizon glided across the water, its guests still nestled in their suites, unaware of the horror waiting just beyond their doors.

The first scream shattered the morning silence.

Near the infinity pool, where the water shimmered in the early light, floated Celeste Harrington.

Her scarlet gown billowed in the water, the deep red fabric twisting and curling like spilled blood. Her body was unnaturally still, her arms spread as if in one final, tragic performance. The queen of Hollywood, the woman who had ruled the silver screen, was dead.

And somewhere on this ship, her murderer was watching.

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