The hum of the morning traffic outside was oddly comforting, a rhythm of normalcy Celeste hadn't felt in a long while. Maya nudged her playfully as they walked through the glass doors of Blackridge Global. Both were dressed to impress — Celeste in her sleek, tailored black slacks paired with a wine-colored blouse that complimented her newly styled hair, and Maya in a playful yet sharp skirt suit that screamed both charm and command.
"You ready, boss lady?" Maya whispered as they stepped into the elevator.
Celeste exhaled, gripping her purse tightly. "No. But I'm doing it anyway."
"That's the spirit," Maya chuckled.
The elevator dinged on the 17th floor — a level Celeste had never seen during her interview rounds. Her breath hitched when she saw the nameplate on a frosted glass door: Celeste Moreau – Finance Strategist.
A sleek office. Her office.
It wasn't massive, but it was hers. Minimalist décor, a modern desk setup, a high-performance computer humming gently, and a wide window that overlooked the city skyline. The feeling was surreal.
"Damn, you got the skyline view on day one? I've been here three years and I'm still stuck beside the copy room," Maya teased.
Celeste grinned, her fingertips brushing over the polished desk. She felt a flutter of pride, quickly hidden beneath a composed exterior.
Soon, she was introduced to a small team of three who would report to her directly — each specialized in brand analysis, creative coordination, and marketing strategy. She shook hands, memorized names, and nodded at their polite smiles. Celeste was gracious but firm, professional yet approachable — her confidence drawing admiration.
Everything was going smoothly. Until the air shifted.
From the other side of the floor, muffled shouting filtered in — not loud enough to hear words, but sharp enough to turn heads.
Celeste arched a brow. "What's going on?"
Maya walked back into her office, eyes wide. "He's pissed. Damien. Apparently, the London deal crashed. His team didn't prepare the pitch properly. He's blowing his office up in rage."
Celeste stiffened. "Today of all days."
"Yup. I just saw his assistant walk out looking like he aged a decade in ten minutes. Stay away from the 19th floor. Seriously."
But the curiosity tugged. This wasn't the Damien she saw at the club — amused, observant, dangerously composed. This was the CEO on fire.
The next hour passed like a storm hanging overhead. There was tension across the department. Emails paused. Phones were silenced. Everyone waited for the thunder.
At around 11:30, Celeste received an email directly from Damien's assistant.
Mr. Leclair would like a brief summary of your team's 7-day development projection and your feedback on the branding structure of our current Paris collaboration. Submit by 1:00 PM.
No subject line. No greeting.
Celeste blinked. "Well, damn."
Maya peeked over her shoulder and whistled. "You just got boss-zapped."
Celeste clicked her pen, all humor drained. "Guess I better start acting like an executive now."
Despite the pressure, she kept her cool. She called her team in, divided the tasks with crisp instructions, and dove headfirst into the project — the fire outside only fueling her resolve.
By 12:56, she had compiled a professional, sleek PDF report, her feedback laid out in bold sections, complete with actionable suggestions.
She hit send.
The office remained silent.
Two minutes later, she received a reply.
Acknowledged.
That was it. Yet for some reason, that one-word response gave her a jolt of satisfaction.
She leaned back in her chair, looking out the window.
Power didn't always need applause.
Sometimes, power was quiet. Strategic. Patient.
And Celeste Moreau was just getting started.
Celeste walked down the sleek corridor, heels clicking against the pristine tiles, the silver plate on her office door still fresh in her mind:
Celeste Moreau, Finance Strategist.
The words carried a strange weight, heavy and powerful. Her own office. Her own department. Her team. She should've felt on top of the world. But all it took was the rumbling echo of Damien Leclair's fury from the other end of the building to jolt her right back down.
The glass trembled as his voice cut through the thick walls.
"Incompetent!" Damien's voice thundered. "How the hell do you all call yourselves professionals?"
Celeste paused just outside his office, the mahogany door slightly ajar. Her instincts screamed to turn back, that this wasn't her battle. But curiosity—or something else entirely—dragged her forward. She peeked through the gap.
Papers were strewn across the floor. A projection screen blinked on the far wall. His team stood in a semi-circle, tense and visibly shaken. Damien paced behind his massive desk, sharp suit disheveled, tie loosened just enough to betray his restraint slipping.
"A full quarter behind projections," he snapped, glaring at the chart on screen. "Do you think our competitors are sleeping? We're losing clients. We're bleeding money. And none of you—"
He stopped. His eyes locked on Celeste.
For a moment, the room froze.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression. Rage? Embarrassment? Interest?
"Everyone, out. Now."
His team scattered without protest, rushing past Celeste, heads bowed.
She stepped inside, the heavy door closing with a soft click behind her.
Damien leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. His jaw clenched.
"You shouldn't be here, Moreau."
"Neither should half your team, apparently," she replied, her voice steady.
A ghost of a smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, quickly swallowed by tension. "You here to gloat?"
"No. I heard the building shake and thought we were under siege."
He exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm under siege. From incompetence."
Celeste took a cautious step forward, glancing at the trashed documents. "Want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really."
"Good," she said, walking further in. "Because I'm not interested in your excuses. I'm interested in solutions."
That got his attention.
"You have something to offer, Finance Head?"
"I have an entire department eager to prove themselves."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're saying your people can fix this mess?"
"I'm saying I can. With the right access. And cooperation."
The fire in his eyes dulled just a little, his gaze sharpening. "You don't back down, do you?"
"Never have."
He looked at her then, really looked—not just at the woman in power before him, but at the storm that lived beneath her skin.
"Alright, Moreau," he said finally. "Show me what you've got."
Celeste offered a short nod. "Starting with that client list."
Damien moved around the desk and began pulling up files. The air between them still sizzled with heat, tension—not the kind born from argument, but something else, something unnamed. Unspoken.
As the charts and numbers appeared on screen, Celeste stepped beside him. Her perfume lingered between them, soft but impossible to ignore. Their shoulders brushed once, and Damien's fingers paused on the keyboard.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. "You lead."
Celeste took the mouse and began navigating through the data, analyzing gaps, trends, and oversights. Damien leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Not just her work. Her.
And for the first time since the morning began, he wasn't angry.
He was intrigued.
Damien's jaw was still clenched when Celeste stepped further into the glass-walled room, her heels making sharp clicks against the sleek marble. The rest of the team had already scattered, Damien's fury sending them into an instinctive retreat. His secretary lingered awkwardly outside the doorway, unsure whether to intervene or escape.
"Why exactly did they turn us down?" Celeste asked, her voice calm but not cold, direct without crossing into disrespect. She folded her arms, her tone firm as her eyes locked on Damien's.
Damien glanced away, running a hand through his dark hair, still fuming. "They said we lack cohesion. That the concept we proposed doesn't match their brand identity."
Celeste raised a brow. "And yet you shouted down three of your best strategists who tried to reframe the proposal."
Damien looked at her sharply, his pride pricked. "They suggested we compromise our standards."
"Or maybe," she said, stepping closer, voice dropping a note, "they were offering you a different lens."
He narrowed his eyes. "What would you have done, then?"
She walked to the table, picking up the discarded proposal. Her fingers trailed over the bold headers, then glanced up. "I'd call them."
His laugh was dry, humorless. "You think they'd just give us a second shot because someone from finance called and asked nicely?"
Celeste smiled, slow and assured. "Not nicely. Persuasively."
Damien crossed his arms, gaze unreadable. "They won't change their minds."
"They might," she said, lifting her chin, "if someone speaks to them the way they need to be spoken to."
He stared at her for a long second, then moved aside and gestured toward the desk. "Fine. Knock yourself out."
Celeste took the seat behind the desk without hesitation. Her fingers flew across the keys, pulling up the client contact info. Damien leaned against the far wall, arms folded, watching with the skepticism of a man convinced she was about to crash and burn.
She made the call, adjusting her tone the moment the voice picked up on the other end. Her voice shifted, silk over steel, low and smooth, effortlessly seductive in its cadence.
"Mr. Laurent, this is Celeste Moreau from Leclair Enterprises. I'm aware your team has expressed some concerns regarding the pitch presented. I'd like to offer a slightly more… curated perspective."
Damien raised a brow.
"Of course, I respect your hesitation," she continued, her voice melting into something intoxicating, charismatic. "But I also think your brand deserves a concept that doesn't just fit—but elevates."
Her legs were crossed, posture effortless. Damien felt his irritation fading into something else entirely—a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and grudging respect.
"I can be in your office this week to present the restructured vision personally," she said, her smile practically audible. "You'll find we adapt exceptionally well, when given the chance."
A beat. Then another.
Celeste tilted her head, then nodded. "Perfect. Thursday it is. Thank you, Mr. Laurent."
She ended the call and looked up.
Damien was quiet.
"We have a second chance," she said, standing slowly. "Thursday. Noon."
He stared at her, something flickering in his dark eyes.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said, voice lower now, less guarded. "Just trying to figure out whether I underestimated you… or if I'm just now seeing what you really are."
Celeste smirked, picking up the folder again. "You weren't looking closely enough."
She turned and walked to the door, her hips swaying, confidence bleeding into every movement.
Damien was still standing there when she was gone, the lingering echo of her voice wrapping around his thoughts.
"Persuasively," he muttered, then smiled, just a little.