From the edge of the club, Damien stood frozen, halfway through a sentence with the client he barely tolerated. His words had trailed off mid-conversation the second he spotted her. Not because she was doing anything inappropriate, but because she commanded attention. She wasn't the shy, tired girl in his office anymore—she was fire on the floor.
Untamed. Wild. Free.
The way her body curved into the beat, the way her confidence radiated—it lit something in him he didn't want to acknowledge. His jaw tightened, but he couldn't look away. Every turn she took dragged him deeper into the haze with her.
She was dancing like no one was watching—yet everyone was.
And Celeste? She felt it.
Felt the crowd's gaze, the subtle shift in energy around her. It should've made her self-conscious. It should've made her stop.
But it didn't.
It fueled her.
A smirk tugged at her lips as she let the music take over completely. She raised her arms, eyes closed, body arching like she owned every inch of the floor. She wasn't dancing to forget anymore.
She was dancing to remind herself.
That she was more than the stress, more than the pain, more than anyone's pity or concern.
She was power wrapped in silk and skin.
And right now? The world could burn around her—she wasn't going anywhere. you like me to pick up right from here next?
Lucien stared with his mouth slightly ajar, drink forgotten in his hand as Celeste moved across the dance floor like it was made for her. The strobe lights caught on the sheen of her skin, on the way her dress clung to her curves, on the bare strength in her body language that said she wasn't here to ask for permission.
Damien hadn't said a word.
Not in the last two minutes.
And that was saying something. Because Damien Leclair always had something to say. Always had control. Always had his next calculated move lined up before the world even blinked.
Not tonight.
Lucien finally tore his eyes from Celeste and glanced at Damien, who stood like a statue beside him. The barely-touched whiskey in Damien's hand was tilted, the amber liquid sloshing too close to the rim. His jaw was locked tight, eyes burning a hole through the crowd.
"She always dance like that?" Lucien finally asked, low and just a little amused.
No answer.
Lucien followed his gaze again, watched as Celeste twirled, her hair flying like ink in the strobe lights. When she slowed down, it wasn't because the music told her to. It was because she decided to. Every move she made screamed that she was in control of her own damn narrative.
He chuckled softly and leaned in toward Damien. "You're staring like she's the storm and you're the lighthouse."
Damien's grip on the glass tightened.
Lucien took a long sip of his own drink, then added with a knowing smirk, "You stay on the sidelines like you always do, D. But someone like her? She'll pull you into the eye of it."
Damien tore his eyes away from the floor, finally, finally speaking.
"She's drunk," he muttered.
Lucien scoffed. "And you're interested. Don't act like you're not. I saw your expression when she slapped that creep. You were impressed. You thought she was hot. Now she's dancing like that and you're trying real hard to pretend it doesn't matter."
Damien shot him a warning glare, but Lucien was already walking away toward the VIP lounge with the client, still grinning to himself.
Left alone, Damien turned his gaze back to the dance floor.
Celeste had slowed down now, swaying gently, laughing at something Maya said. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips glistening from whatever drink she'd last had, and her eyes—even under dim lights—sparkled with something dangerous.
Damien had spent years perfecting emotional detachment. Women came and went. Business deals did the same. He was driven, untouchable, unaffected. But there was something about her.
Something infuriatingly magnetic.
And just when he was about to head back to his side of the line—the safe side—Celeste looked up.
Right at him.
She didn't falter. Didn't look away. Her lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile that was nothing like the innocent expressions she wore around the office.
This one?
This smile said I see you.
Damien's composure cracked.
Not on the outside—never visibly. But internally? There was a shift. A pull.
He downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down hard enough to make it clink. He didn't know why he was doing it, but his feet were already moving, carrying him toward the crowd, toward her.
Celeste was still dancing, but slower now. Her body followed the music like it was liquid, every motion fluid, graceful. She didn't break eye contact as he approached. And when he was close enough to smell her perfume—vanilla with something sharp and citrusy beneath it—he didn't speak.
He just held out a hand.
Celeste raised a brow. "You want to dance, Mr. Leclair?"
Damien's voice was low. "Not particularly. But I want to be here."
Her eyes danced. "So you're just going to stand there and stare at me like I'm a circus act?"
He gave a half-shrug. "You're not a circus act. You're… something else."
She bit back a smile and placed her fingers in his.
The contact sent a jolt up Damien's arm. Something sharp and electric. It was all too close. Too intimate. The lights faded into the background. The noise dulled.
They weren't dancing, not really. But they were moving. Together.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Damien wasn't thinking about the stock market, or meetings, or acquisitions. He was thinking about the way her body leaned into his, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed him in. The dangerous way her smile threatened to ruin all his carefully laid rules.
They didn't speak again.
Didn't need to.
Because sometimes, two storms didn't destroy each other.
Sometimes, they collided… and danced.
The bass of the music throbbed through the walls as lights flickered like electric veins, painting the room in blues and reds. The crowd swelled around Celeste as she danced, her body moving with a confidence that ignited the air around her. Every move she made was calculated yet free, like she was claiming a piece of the night for herself.
Damien stood frozen, somewhere between astonishment and disbelief. His eyes had followed her ever since she stepped onto the dance floor, his earlier irritation vanishing like smoke. She was magnetic. Mesmerizing. And now, infuriatingly unattainable.
Lucien, standing next to him, smirked as he took in Damien's expression. "You're staring, boss," he said, amusement thick in his voice. "Not very professional."
Damien snapped his gaze away, jaw clenched. "We're not here for this."
"No? Because I'd swear we are now," Lucien quipped, already moving forward, cutting through the throng. Celeste noticed him only when he was a step away. Her body instinctively slowed, her eyes flickering with surprise. Lucien leaned in with an easy grin and took her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Mind if I steal a dance?" he asked smoothly, not waiting for an answer. He pulled her close enough that her hand landed on his shoulder, their bodies fitting together in a practiced sway.
Damien's gaze sharpened like broken glass. Something inside him coiled. Tightly.
Lucien bent his head and whispered something to Celeste, who threw her head back in laughter. She looked radiant, flushed with wine and adrenaline, the kind of woman who burned down the world and still had enough spark left to smile while doing it.
Then Lucien glanced over his shoulder and caught Damien's eye. With a mischievous gleam, he leaned closer to Celeste's ear and murmured, loud enough for Damien to catch:
"He's watching you like he forgot how to breathe."
Celeste stiffened slightly, her laughter tapering off. She followed Lucien's gaze—only to meet Damien's.
For a split second, everything slowed. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Damien didn't look away. He couldn't. The look on his face was unreadable, a storm churning behind his dark eyes.
Lucien smirked again, but this time his voice dropped so only she could hear. "You've already gotten under his skin. I should warn you—he doesn't bleed easily."
That did something to Damien. He stepped back without a word, his fists curling at his sides. It wasn't the teasing, or even the way Lucien touched her. It was the reminder—the undeniable ache—that someone else could get close enough to touch what he couldn't.
He didn't know if it was jealousy or fury, but it left him raw.
Celeste, sensing the shift, gently pulled away from Lucien, her expression flickering between confusion and caution. She looked toward Damien again, but he had already turned, disappearing into the crowd.
Lucien chuckled under his breath. "And there he goes."
"What did you say to him?" she asked, brows furrowing.
Lucien raised an eyebrow, tone playfully innocent. "Only the truth."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Not when her own heart was doing that annoying skip again, the same way it did every time Damien looked at her like she wasn't just another employee.
But she couldn't afford to think about that—not tonight.
Not when she was finally feeling powerful, finally breaking out of the cage she'd built around herself.
Lucien offered his hand again. She took it.
And they danced—two flames burning bright beneath a fractured ceiling, while somewhere behind them, a man watched from the shadows, wounded by a feeling he didn't want to name.
The music had faded to a softer hum by the time the night began winding down. Sweat clung to Celeste's neck, her body buzzing with adrenaline and alcohol. The high of the dance, of owning a moment entirely, had begun to wane into a slow, dizzy hum. Maya gently reached for her wrist.
"Let's go home, you lightweight," she whispered, a laugh in her voice but concern in her eyes.
Celeste's lashes fluttered as she turned, breathing heavily. Her lipstick had smudged slightly, and a tendril of hair clung to her temple. "Give me a sec," she mumbled, wobbling a little on her heels.
Maya rolled her eyes but nodded, letting her friend have a moment.
Celeste's steps felt unsteady, but it wasn't the drink making her falter this time. It was him.
Damien Leclair stood on the far end of the floor, hands shoved into his pockets, his usual iron composure seeming softer, less guarded. His shirt was slightly rumpled, and his jaw clenched tight.
She walked up to him, her movements slow but deliberate, her eyes still hazy. He straightened instinctively, the cool mask slipping back onto his face.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Celeste said, her voice thick with inebriation but still carrying that sharp undertone that always made people pay attention.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her. Observed her. As if trying to memorize this version of her.
"I should get you home," he finally muttered.
Celeste tilted her head, lips twitching into a slanted smile. "You're dodging, Mr. CEO."
His eyes narrowed. "I don't dodge."
"Then tell me," she stepped closer, the tips of her shoes brushing his. Her perfume—jasmine and night air—wrapped around him. "Why did you look… guilty?"
Damien's throat bobbed. He didn't expect the question. Didn't expect her to catch on, even in this state.
Guilty.
The word landed too accurately.
He glanced away. A flicker of something raw passed over his face before the shutters came down again.
"You're drunk. We'll talk when you're sober."
Celeste laughed, hollow and breathy. "So that's a yes. You do feel guilty."
"Celeste," he warned, his voice low.
But she didn't flinch. Didn't back down. Instead, her expression softened, surprising even herself. "It's okay. Whatever it is. I'm used to people hiding things. Pretending they didn't choose to leave. Or ignore. Or forget."
That cracked something.
Damien reached out instinctively, his hand brushing her forearm—but Maya had already returned, looping her arm through Celeste's.
"Time's up, goddess. Let's get you home before you spill philosophical wine all over Mr. CEO."
Celeste let herself be led, but as she glanced back, her eyes locked with Damien's one last time.
He hadn't moved.
And he still hadn't answered.
But that guilt? It lingered on his face long after she'd gone.