Even before she knew who Sepharina truly was, Celeste had felt that ugly twist in her stomach—the kind that only came with jealousy. It was irrational, she knew. But the woman had glided into the building like she owned it, her smile too sweet, her confidence too unsettling. Something about the way she looked at Damien, spoke with that effortless familiarity, made Celeste bristle. She couldn't explain it, but it was like watching a scene she hadn't been cast in—yet it affected her all the same. That subtle possessiveness curled inside her long before the truth hit like a punch.
Celeste stared into Maya's soul. "She walked into Damien's office. Like she belonged there."
"She kinda does," Maya said reluctantly, eyes flicking to Celeste's face.
Celeste's breath hitched. "What do you mean?"
Maya hesitated, visibly weighing her words before finally sighing and leaning against the desk. "Okay, so… You didn't hear this from me, but—she's Damien's wife."
The silence was deafening.
Celeste didn't even blink. Her brain refused to process the words for a second. Then she slowly blinked again, her lips parting.
"…What?"
"Wife," Maya repeated, flinching as if she expected Celeste to throw her coffee. "As in, legally bound in holy—and probably very businessy—matrimony."
Celeste stared at her, stunned. "You're serious?"
"I wouldn't make something like that up."
Her chest tightened. It was like being dropped in cold water. She had suspected something—yes. But this?
"She didn't act like a wife," Celeste mumbled, more to herself.
"Well, their relationship is… complicated," Maya offered gently. "From what I know, it was a strategic marriage, not a romantic one. They've been separated for a while now. Damien never talks about her. I didn't even know she was back in the picture."
Celeste stepped back, pacing. Her pulse thrummed loud in her ears.
A wife.
And she'd seen her.
That woman had looked her in the eye like she already knew everything. And maybe she had. Maybe Sepharina had seen the way Damien looked at Celeste. Maybe that sickly-sweet smile was a warning wrapped in sugar.
"She didn't mention being his wife," Celeste said bitterly.
"Of course not. That's not how she works." Maya sighed, running a hand through her curls. "Look, I've only met her twice. But both times, I walked away wanting to exfoliate her energy off me. She's the type who smiles while mentally listing your insecurities."
Celeste sat down heavily, her mind spiraling.
She shouldn't feel betrayed. She and Damien weren't anything official. But she did feel blindsided. And somewhere deep down, insecure.
Because now she knew exactly why Sepharina had looked so confident walking into his office.
She wasn't just someone from Damien's past.
She was still legally his.
Celeste Moreau paced her office, heels clicking against the marble floor, fury humming beneath her skin like electricity trapped in wires. Her jaw was clenched so tight it ached, her eyes burning with unshed confusion and betrayal. Sepharina Cole. Damien's wife.
Wife.
The word clanged in her head like a broken bell. Maya's voice still echoed in her mind, too casual, too soft, as if she hadn't just dropped a bomb that blew apart the fragile thing Celeste was beginning to build with Damien.
For once in her life, Celeste had allowed herself to believe in something. Someone. She had started to feel something deeper—something unspoken—in the way Damien looked at her, the rare softness in his gaze, the tension in his jaw when she spoke too close, smiled too sweet. He wasn't just another man. She'd thought he was her exception.
But he was married.
Of course he was.
She stopped walking, gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles white. The pieces fit together now. His guilt, his hesitation, the odd silence after Lucien's comment at the club. The way he avoided eye contact earlier when he had whispered something. It all made sense.
He was married. And yet he'd looked at her like that. Touched her like that. Let her slip under his skin just enough to make her feel like she mattered.
She hated the way it stung.
She wasn't stupid. Men like Damien Leclair didn't come without chaos. She just didn't expect to be part of it.
Still, she wasn't going to fall apart.
No. If he thought she would crumble, he didn't know her at all. She wouldn't confront him—not yet. That would be too easy. Instead, she would play the game she knew well. She would smile. Act like nothing had changed. Make him wonder how much she knew.
And then? Then she'd ask. Casually. Sweetly. Just enough to make him squirm.
She smoothed a hand over her blouse, grabbed her bag, and slipped on her coat. Damien had insisted on tagging along for the meeting with the investors she'd saved the deal with. Fine. Let him. It would be easier to look him in the eye while knowing the truth.
On her way down the hall, she saw him through the glass—sharp suit, sleeves rolled, forehead creased as he spoke with Lucien. He looked up the second she stepped into view, his expression unreadable. That usual spark of curiosity lingered, but today, Celeste was colder.
"Ready?" he asked, tone clipped.
She nodded with a smile too serene to be real. "Always."
Lucien blinked at her, picking up on the shift instantly. "Well, damn. Who pissed in your champagne?"
"No one important," she replied smoothly, eyes locked on Damien.
As they rode the elevator down, silence stretched taut between them. She stood with perfect posture, the image of poise, her perfume subtle but sharp—an echo of the woman he was beginning to notice more than he should.
"You seem… off," Damien finally said.
She tilted her head. "Do I? Perhaps it's just anticipation. This meeting is important, isn't it?"
He nodded slowly, studying her. "It is."
"Then let's make it count."
The car was already waiting, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows. Damien slid in first, Lucien beside him, and Celeste took the opposite seat, crossing her legs like a queen.
She could feel his gaze on her, flicking down to her lips, her legs, then quickly away. Good. Let him feel what she felt—confused, drawn in, and utterly out of control.
The ride was uneventful until Lucien mentioned Sepharina.
"She said she might swing by the building again tomorrow. She left something at the front desk."
Celeste's hand curled into a fist in her lap.
"Tell her not to. She has no business there," Damien snapped.
Celeste raised a brow. "You're not very hospitable to your… guests."
Damien turned to her. "I don't like interruptions."
"Neither do I," she replied coolly.
He stared at her a second too long. Then looked away.
The meeting was held at a luxury hotel's conference wing. Celeste stepped out first, heels clicking like gunshots, confidence etched into every movement. Damien stayed close, watching the way the room shifted around her.
She belonged.
Inside, the investors were already seated. It was a high-stakes pitch, and Celeste took the lead like she had done this her whole life. Her voice was honey-laced steel, calm and calculated, and when she brought up their revised proposal,
Damien Leclair had expected Celeste Moreau to be efficient. Impressive, even. But this?
She walked into the conference room like she owned it—heels echoing against the marble floor, sleek formalwear hugging her frame in clean, confident lines. The way she carried herself didn't just demand attention—it captivated it.
Damien, seated at the head of the table, had been mid-conversation with the marketing director when she entered, but his voice had trailed off the moment he saw her. His fingers stilled against his tablet. The silence that spread was subtle but unmistakable. Everyone noticed her.
Even the visiting company's boss, a man not easily impressed, straightened in his seat and followed Celeste's every step with a dazed sort of awe.
Celeste gave a polite smile to the attendees, but there was a fire in her gaze Damien hadn't seen before. She didn't wait to be invited to speak. She simply set her portfolio on the table, connected her drive to the screen, and began.
"Good afternoon. I'll be walking you through our revised pitch, our updated projections, and a few areas where our two companies can create better synergy than initially outlined."
Her voice was calm and cool, edged with just enough steel to cut through any lingering doubt. Damien leaned back in his chair, watching every gesture, every flick of her wrist, every glance she cast around the table. She wasn't reading a script. She was weaving power.
When she moved on to the financial breakdown, even the visiting CFO was nodding with a small, impressed smile. A few of the junior members on the opposing team couldn't hide their admiration—especially one who was clearly trying not to stare too long at her.
Damien noticed. Of course he did.
But what made his jaw clench wasn't just the attention she was drawing. It was how completely she commanded it.
Celeste paused at one point, clicked to a graph that outlined the growth trajectory of both companies should they collaborate, and asked, "Any questions so far?"
A few murmured negatives. The others just looked like they were trying to gather their thoughts.
Damien tried not to smirk. She had them in her palm.
After an hour, the room erupted in polite applause. The boss from the other company stood and extended his hand.
"I have to say, Miss Moreau, you've made quite the impression. I wasn't sure what to expect after our last call, but this? You've managed to make me reconsider everything."
Celeste's smile was smooth, professional, but Damien knew her well enough now to see the flicker of satisfaction beneath it.
"I'm glad to hear that," she said. "It's always best to reconsider when the facts shift."
They laughed. The tension that had colored the beginning of the meeting dissolved into light conversation.
But Damien didn't say a word. He was too busy watching her.
The way she nodded, the way her lips curved when she spoke. The way her confidence didn't come from arrogance, but from knowledge—sharp, earned, and ironclad.
She was magnetic. And now, everyone in that room knew it too.
As the others filed out after formal goodbyes, Damien stood slower than usual. Celeste turned to pack her things, fingers dancing across the tablet.
"Leclair," the visiting boss murmured, walking by him with a chuckle, "If she ever wants a change of scenery, you know how to reach me."
Damien's jaw tightened. "She's not going anywhere."
The man laughed and walked away.
Celeste looked up, arching a brow. "Something wrong?"
"Not a thing," Damien said. His voice was a little rougher than he intended. "You… did well."
She slung her bag over her shoulder, a slight smirk on her lips. "I know."
And with that, she walked past him, perfume trailing in the air, heels clicking in that same defiant rhythm.
He stood there, stunned. Because now he wasn't thinking about her as an employee. He was thinking about what it would take to be worthy of her.
And that terrified him more than he cared to admit.