The sound of her heels echoed against the polished marble floors of Blackridge Global as Celeste stepped through the grand hallway. She had come only to inquire—just to check the status of her interview. She hadn't expected anything to come of it so soon, and certainly not this.
Her heart raced beneath her calm façade. The last time she had stood here, she'd made waves. That slap had echoed more than just in the hallways; apparently, it had made its way into the executive offices.
"Miss Celeste Moreau?"
The low baritone pulled her attention. She turned, eyes narrowing as she took in the man walking toward her. Charcoal gray suit, broad shoulders, jawline sharp enough to wound, and those piercing, unreadable eyes.
Damien Leclair.
CEO of Blackridge Global.
And he was walking directly toward her.
Her spine straightened instinctively. Her grip tightened around the strap of her bag. She didn't let the flash of tension reach her face.
He stopped in front of her, holding a sleek black envelope in his hand. His presence was overpowering—like standing too close to a wildfire in a snowstorm.
"This is for you," he said, offering the envelope with an expression she couldn't quite read.
She stared at it. Then at him.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice controlled, measured.
"Your offer letter," he replied simply.
Celeste blinked.
"Already?"
"We believe in quick action here."
She didn't take the envelope immediately. Something in her hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but calculation. This was what she wanted. Needed. And yet, the swiftness of it all made her wary.
Damien's gaze didn't waver. "You earned it."
Her fingers finally closed around the letter. It was heavier than it looked. The paper felt expensive, smooth and authoritative in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.
He gave her a short nod before walking past her, his secretary following close behind.
Celeste stood rooted for a second, her breath catching in her throat.
Earned it.
Those words echoed in her head.
She moved to one of the sleek leather benches by the window, slid down onto it, and broke the seal on the envelope. Her fingers trembled just slightly. Only she would ever know.
Inside was a single sheet of paper embossed with the company's emblem.
Her name. Her department. Her designation. Her salary.
A figure she had never imagined for herself. Not this soon.
She reread it once. Twice. Her lips parted in a quiet exhale.
She could afford food now. Rent. Maybe even a new mattress. Maybe even… a place with actual windows that weren't painted shut.
She sank back into the seat, the weight of the letter settling in her lap.
And yet it wasn't the money that hit her hardest.
It was the validation.
She wasn't crazy for wanting more. She wasn't wrong for refusing to bow. For standing tall when her whole world tried to shrink her.
The bitter memory of the last job she'd lost stung behind her eyes. The hours she'd poured in, unpaid, unnoticed. The hope that her extra effort would turn into growth. It hadn't. Instead, they had replaced her with someone who smiled more and questioned less.
Her jaw clenched at the memory. But now… she had this.
She stared out the window at the city skyline. The glass walls of Blackridge reflected everything she had fought for, everything she had lost.
Her phone buzzed.
It was Maya.
Maya: Did you get it? Tell me you got it!!!
Celeste smiled for the first time that day, thumb dancing quickly across the screen.
Celeste: I got it. He gave it to me himself.
The reply came fast.
Maya: Girl, what the actual hell? You're a legend. Want me to scream now or later?
Celeste: Now. Go ahead.
She could almost hear Maya's squeal through the phone. Her smile softened. For all her solitude, she wasn't alone anymore.
Sliding the letter back into the envelope, she stood. This wasn't the end. Not even close. It was just the beginning.
She adjusted the collar of her coat, squared her shoulders, and walked out of the building—not like someone who'd just gotten hired.
But like someone who'd just taken her first step toward dominance.
Celeste Moreau wasn't just going to survive here.
She was going to own the goddamn floor.
"Wait!" Maya called out as Celeste was about to exit the building.
Celeste turned, raising a brow, still high on the adrenaline of everything that had just happened—the confrontation, the offer letter, Damien Leclair's piercing eyes.
Maya hurried over, clutching two packed lunch boxes in her hand. "Come on, you can't go home without celebrating at least a little. I brought food, and I know a good corner in the back cafeteria that's mostly quiet. Perfect for decompressing."
Celeste hesitated, her fingers curling around the handle of her bag. She wasn't even sure what she was feeling—relief, shock, a twinge of pride? But Maya's smile and gentle tug at her sleeve grounded her.
"Okay," Celeste nodded. "Let's go."
They found their way to the company cafeteria—sleek, modern, and humming with quiet chatter. Maya led her to a sunlit table tucked away in the corner. It felt safe there, away from the whirlwind of powerful men and judgmental eyes.
Maya popped open the lunch boxes. "Homemade pasta. You need a good meal before you start plotting world domination."
Celeste chuckled softly, but her eyes still carried the weight of the morning. She took a bite, savoring the warm, creamy sauce. "Thank you… for everything. I really mean it."
Maya just shrugged. "I got your back. Always."
Just then, a buzz of excitement rippled through the cafeteria. People began murmuring, standing, phones came out.
"What's going on?" Celeste asked, looking around.
Maya craned her neck. "Oh—it's Mr. Leclair. There's a shoot going on today. They do some PR campaigns every few months. You know, 'the face of Blackridge Global' kind of stuff."
The two stood up and followed the small crowd to the company atrium where the shoot was set up. Spotlights lit up the marble floor, and a backdrop of dark green and gold shimmered behind a tall, elegant man—Damien Leclair, dressed in a fitted black suit, no tie, and confidence that exuded from every pore.
Next to him was a woman in a sleek red dress—Elena, a marketing employee known more for her selfies than her performance. She struck pose after pose, but her smile was forced, her movements awkward. The crew exchanged glances. One muttered, "This is not working."
Maya leaned closer to Celeste. "Oof. She's butchering it. This is hard to watch."
Celeste, ever the perfectionist, whispered, "Her body language is too stiff. She's making it about herself, not the brand. It should be about shared power."
A stylist, clearly frustrated, tried adjusting Elena's arm. Damien pinched the bridge of his nose. Someone from the PR team sighed audibly.
"You think you can do better?" Elena suddenly snapped, her eyes landing on Celeste. Her tone wasn't malicious—it was smug. Amused.
Celeste blinked, surprised. "I didn't mean—"
But before she could finish, Damien raised a brow. There was a trace of amusement on his face too, but more than that, curiosity. He spoke, his voice like velvet laced with steel. "Let her try."
The room went dead silent.
Celeste's eyes widened. "Sir, I—"
"Show us what you meant. Just for a shot."
Maya nudged her gently. "Go."
With trembling hands and a heart beating out of rhythm, Celeste walked to the stage. The crew adjusted lights. Someone handed her a blazer, simple and sharp.
She stood beside Damien.
And then, she straightened her spine.
The mask slipped on—graceful, composed, powerful. She didn't pose like she was trying to look good. She became the image. A woman of vision. A partner, not a prop.
In one subtle move, she adjusted her stance, angled her body to mirror Damien's but never cower. She met his gaze—not flirty, not forced, but steady.
The photographer, stunned, clicked.
The PR head whispered, "That's it."
Damien's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She had presence. Real presence. Not trained. Not rehearsed. Just there. Like she belonged.
Elena stood to the side, lips tight.
The camera flashed again. The team started murmuring excitedly.
Celeste stepped back after three shots, gently handing the blazer back.
"I didn't mean to overstep," she said quietly.
Damien tilted his head. "You didn't."
As she walked off the stage, the hum of excitement followed her like a wave.
Maya's jaw was hanging slightly open when she returned.
"You…" she blinked. "You killed that."
Celeste didn't respond at first. Her hands were still shaking a little. But a part of her—deep, quiet, relentless—smiled.
Maybe she didn't just belong here.
Maybe she was meant to rule it.
Damien's POV
He wasn't supposed to notice. She was just another employee—sharp, impressive, sure, but not someone who should've lingered in his thoughts. And yet, as Celeste stepped onto the set, taking command of the mess the shoot had become, Damien felt his chest tighten.
She wasn't trying to be seductive. That made it worse. Her focus, her confidence, the way her eyes held his for a heartbeat too long—it disarmed him. He told himself it was curiosity, amusement even, watching her speak with authority in that calm, melodic voice. But then she stood just inches from him to adjust a misplaced light reflector, her fingers brushing his.
A static thrum crackled through the space between them. His throat dried. Her perfume—soft, like vanilla laced with danger—clouded his logic.
She didn't shrink away. She didn't flirt either. She was… powerful. And it made him reel.
This shouldn't be happening. He wasn't a man who strayed. But Damien found himself leaning in ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. Just enough to inhale more of her presence.
What the hell was this woman doing to him?
And why did a part of him want more?