As they walked out of the glass-walled conference room, the mood was electric. The sharp click of Celeste Moreau's heels echoed in the marble-floored corridor as Damien Leclair followed closely behind. Neither of them said a word, but it was clear that something had shifted. The entire meeting had been a showcase of Celeste's power—her poise, her confidence, the way she made facts sing and negotiations feel like a dance.
Just as they were heading towards the elevator, the president of the other company, Adrien Vallois, a well-built man in his late forties with streaks of silver running through his neatly combed hair, caught up with them.
"Ms. Moreau, Mr. Leclair," he called out with a charismatic smile, buttoning his navy blazer as he walked. "I must say, that was one of the most efficient and engaging meetings I've attended in years. Your team has my admiration."
Celeste turned with a polite nod, and Damien gave a tight smile.
Adrien continued, "I was wondering if I could steal a bit more of your time. I'm hosting a lunch at Le Rivage, just a few blocks down. It would be an honor to have you both join me."
Damien was about to politely decline—he wasn't particularly in the mood to be social, especially after everything Celeste had pulled off. She had been flawless. The way she owned that room, the way even Vallois had seemed enamored. He was used to being the dominant presence in a room, and for the first time in a long while, he wasn't.
But before he could speak, Celeste offered a smile. "We would be happy to join you, Mr. Vallois."
Damien blinked, side-eyeing her. Happy to join him?
"Excellent," Adrien said, beaming. "A car is already waiting downstairs."
The restaurant was extravagant. Private, elegant, with high ceilings and golden chandeliers that cast a warm light across white-linened tables. A string quartet played softly in the background.
They were seated in a private dining area. Celeste chose a seat across from Adrien, leaving Damien to sit beside her. The air was thick with charm and conversation. Adrien Vallois, ever the gentleman, showered Celeste with compliments on her leadership and strategy.
"I must say, Ms. Moreau, you have a remarkable presence. Sharp mind and sharper tongue. It's rare to find that in today's industry."
Celeste offered a small smile, tilting her head. "Thank you, Mr. Vallois. But I believe today's success was a team effort."
Damien nearly rolled his eyes. She was charming, polite, and completely in control. He felt oddly sidelined.
Wine was poured. The main course was served—grilled sea bass with lemon-butter sauce. But Damien wasn't really tasting anything. He was too focused on watching Adrien Vallois. The man was clearly impressed. A little too impressed. And Celeste, as usual, wasn't backing down from the attention. If anything, she was leaning into it—flashing that subtle, knowing smile. Damien knew that smile. He'd seen it when she first walked into his company. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly how much power she held.
"So, Ms. Moreau," Adrien leaned in slightly, his voice dropping an octave, "how long have you been with Leclair Group?"
"Not long," she replied smoothly, swirling her wine. "Just long enough to feel at home."
Damien watched her. Home. Was that how she saw it? It felt like she was carving her name into the foundation.
"And what brought you there?"
Celeste glanced sideways at Damien before returning her gaze to Adrien. "A recommendation, and perhaps a little fate."
Damien stiffened beside her.
Adrien chuckled. "Fate is generous when it sends talents like you."
The lunch continued, filled with polite laughter and lingering gazes. Damien stayed mostly quiet, his presence towering but detached. He was analyzing everything—Celeste's choice of words, the way Adrien kept looking at her, the way she didn't mind it. Was it professional admiration or something else? Damien couldn't tell. And that infuriated him.
As the dessert was served—a decadent dark chocolate mousse—Celeste leaned slightly toward Damien. "You okay?"
He blinked. "Fine."
"You haven't spoken much."
"Didn't have to. You were clearly doing all the talking," he replied, a touch of cold amusement in his voice.
Celeste's lips curved. "You're welcome."
Adrien smiled, watching the interaction. "You two work well together. Like fire and ice. It's rare."
"More like a match and gasoline," Damien muttered under his breath.
Celeste kicked him lightly under the table. He didn't react.
When lunch wrapped up, Adrien stood and offered his hand to Celeste.
"I look forward to our next meeting."
Celeste took his hand confidently. "As do I."
Damien shook his hand next, firm and brief.
The ride back to the office was quiet. Damien sat beside Celeste in the car, the silence between them thick.
"He likes you," Damien finally said.
Celeste didn't look at him. "I'm sure he likes competent people."
"Don't play dumb, Celeste."
She turned to him, eyes narrowed. "Does it bother you?"
He looked at her. Really looked at her. Her dark eyes, her sculpted features, the confident smirk she wore like armor.
"It shouldn't," he said. "But it does."
Celeste looked out the window again, hiding her smile.
"You said I was a match," she murmured. "Careful, Leclair. I burn."
"So do I," he said.
And neither of them said another word the rest of the ride.
The car ride back was quiet at first, the energy from the lunch still settling in the air. Damien sat in the backseat of the sleek black vehicle, the leather cool against his palm as he leaned into the corner, his mind replaying the events of the meeting over and over again. Celeste had been… perfect. Sharp, composed, magnetic. The way the other company's president had kept glancing her way, the silent offers that lingered in his words—he didn't like that one bit. Not that he had a say in it.
Lucien drove in silence, his usual smug commentary taking a backseat for once. Perhaps it was out of respect. Or maybe even he could feel the unspoken tension in the air between the two in the backseat.
Celeste, sitting beside Damien, felt her shoulders relax slightly. It had been a long day. A successful day. But tiring. She didn't want to admit it aloud, not to him at least, but it felt good to have him beside her through it. As if the confidence she wore so perfectly today was partially fueled by his presence.
The hum of the engine and the soft purr of the tires on the road dulled her senses. She let herself lean a little toward him. At first, it was just subtle—the slightest touch of her shoulder against his. Damien stilled, his muscles tightening in response, unsure if she was doing it on purpose.
She didn't move back. In fact, she leaned in a bit more.
Damien turned slightly, his head tilted down as he glanced at her.
Her lashes had fallen over her cheeks. Soft, steady breathing followed. She had genuinely fallen asleep.
There was a pause in his heartbeat. She was right there, warm against him, her scent soft and distracting. He didn't move. Couldn't.
Lucien glanced into the rearview mirror and smirked faintly but said nothing.
The car rolled through the city, bathed in the golden hue of late afternoon sun, and in that long, unbothered silence, Damien allowed himself to soften.
He shifted only slightly—just enough so her head would rest more comfortably against his shoulder. And for the first time in a while, he felt… peace.
And yet, deep inside, the war hadn't quieted. Because this, whatever it was between them, wasn't supposed to exist. Especially not when ghosts from the past still lingered—especially not when Celeste didn't know everything.
But for now, he let her stay, her head heavy against his shoulder, as if she belonged there.
Even if only for a ride back to reality.
Damien's POV
The low hum of the car engine provided a strange kind of comfort, one Damien hadn't realized he needed until now. Rain softly tapped against the glass windows, and the city passed them by in blurry streaks of gray and light. He leaned his head slightly, gaze dropping to the woman beside him. Celeste Moreau. Her name was sharp, elegant—just like her. And right now, she was sleeping, cheek resting against his shoulder as though this were the most natural place for her in the world.
He should move. He knew that. He should shift away, create distance, remind himself that this was wrong. Because it was. It had to be.
He was married.
The thought stabbed at him with silent precision. Sepharina's face flashed across his mind—her practiced smile, the poised grace that had charmed so many but never reached his core. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His relationship with Sepharina had been dead for a long time, existing only on paper and in carefully scheduled public appearances. Whatever fire they had once shared was extinguished by cold ambition and growing distance.
But none of that changed the facts. He was still married.
He looked at Celeste again, her lashes casting faint shadows on her cheeks, her expression peaceful, almost vulnerable. There was something disarming about her presence, something that silenced the storm inside him. For once, the constant ache in his chest quieted. Just her leaning on him, unconsciously trusting him—it calmed his racing mind more than any of his expensive whiskeys or late-night drives ever could.
He wasn't doing anything wrong. Not really.
She wasn't touching him beyond the lean of her body against his arm. He hadn't held her, hadn't kissed her, hadn't confessed the desire that clawed through him every time she stepped into a room. It was innocent. Entirely innocent. A moment born out of comfort and circumstance.
And yet…
He was afraid of how easily his guilt was soothed by that logic.
Damien ran a hand through his hair, careful not to disturb her. His assistant, Lucien, glanced briefly from the rearview mirror but said nothing—bless the man and his loyalty. The silence stretched on, heavy but not unwelcome.
She stirred slightly, letting out a small, content sigh, and his jaw tightened.
She trusted him.
That realization cut deeper than he expected. Because he wasn't sure if he deserved that. He wasn't sure if he could give her what she might want if things continued this way. And yet, like a man starved for affection, he clung to this illusion of safety she brought him. He let himself enjoy this moment longer than he should have.
What did it matter if he admired the way her hair framed her face? What did it matter if her laughter made the air feel lighter or if her intelligence stirred something deep in his chest? He wasn't acting on anything. He was just… existing beside her.
But it was dangerous. He knew it.
Because he could see the cracks already forming in his restraint. He could feel the pull in the way his eyes lingered on her lips when she spoke or the heat that bloomed in his chest when she smiled at him with that knowing glint in her eyes.
Still, Damien didn't move.
He let her rest. Just this once.
Let her warmth seep into the cold corners of his soul.
He could pretend it meant nothing—that it was just another day, another coworker, another coincidence. But deep down, he knew. This wasn't just another anything.
Celeste Moreau wasn't just anyone.
She had managed, somehow, to step past the walls he had so carefully built. And the worst part? He hadn't even noticed until she was already inside, until she had already made herself comfortable in the empty spaces he never let anyone touch.
Damien closed his eyes briefly, letting the weight of the moment settle.
Just a little longer.
Just one more minute of peace before reality set in again.