Celeste sat curled up on Maya's couch, the noise from the movie barely registering. Her mind drifted back to earlier—Damien offering to drop her home, Lucien glancing at her with his usual quiet concern. She had deflected quickly, insisted on stopping at Maya's. It worked for now, but how long could she keep this up?
She wasn't ashamed of her apartment—not exactly. But after the sleek offices, the polished dinners, the effortless way Damien existed in luxury, her place felt… small. Cramped. Too real. It was all she could afford—clean, cozy, hers—but it didn't belong in the world she now had a foot in.
What if they saw the peeling paint, the one flickering kitchen bulb she hadn't gotten around to fixing? What if Damien stepped inside and looked uncomfortable, polite but awkward, or worse—sympathetic?
She sighed, fingers tightening around her glass. How long before someone insisted on dropping her home again? Before the lies, the excuses, the reroutes started to stack up?
It wasn't about pride. It was about boundaries. About survival. But still, the thought lingered—how long until her truth unraveled the image she'd worked so hard to build?
And what would Damien think then?
Maya studied her, her instincts buzzing. Then she asked the question she'd been dying to ask.
"Cee… why didn't you go home?"
Celeste didn't meet her gaze. "I wanted to see you."
Maya's voice was gentle now. "You could've called. You brought food. You were clearly thinking about me. But you still didn't go home first."
Silence.
"I just didn't feel like being alone tonight," Celeste finally said.
It was the truth—but not all of it.
Maya nodded slowly, letting it go—for now.
"Okay," she said after a moment. "Then we're doing a movie night. No sad stuff. Only things with explosions and possibly people with swords."
Celeste smiled faintly. "You always know how to fix things."
"I am the best friend."
They clinked their glasses of juice together, and for the first time that night, Celeste leaned back into the couch, letting herself breathe.
She didn't talk about the guilt she felt for not wanting Damien to see where she lived.
She didn't talk about the way her chest ached when she remembered Sepharina's face.
She didn't talk about the fact that even though nothing had happened, her heart already felt too invested.
She just stayed in Maya's apartment, surrounded by warmth and familiarity, and decided—for tonight—that pretending everything was fine was enough.
The morning sun filtered through the blinds of Maya's apartment, catching in the golden strands of Celeste's hair as she stood in front of the mirror. She wore a crisp white blouse and a pair of tailored black slacks—Maya's, both slightly loose but manageable. Her own wardrobe, though neatly kept, lacked the sophistication the new job seemed to demand. She dabbed a bit of lip gloss on, her face reflecting determination and a hint of nerves.
"You ready, my lady?" Maya called from the kitchen, toast in hand and that ever-present mischievous grin on her face.
Celeste rolled her eyes playfully. "Hardly. But I'll survive."
Together, they walked into the office building, laughing softly over something trivial. Celeste was grateful for the distraction. Her heart skipped when she saw Damien's sleek black car already parked. He was early. She braced herself.
The elevator ride was filled with silent anticipation. The moment they stepped out on their floor, Celeste noticed the shift. The usual buzz of the office felt subdued. Eyes flickered toward the CEO's cabin with unease.
Damien's door was closed, and through the glass, Celeste caught a glimpse of him pacing, his expression tight, brows furrowed. Something was clearly wrong.
Lucien was at his desk, unusually quiet, his focus trained on his laptop. Celeste dropped her bag in her office and glanced toward Maya.
"He seems… off," she whispered.
"Big time," Maya murmured back, pulling her chair closer. "And no one knows why. He's been like that since he got here."
Celeste nodded and got to work, choosing not to ask. She knew better than to push. Whatever it was, Damien would either handle it himself—or explode. Her job was to make sure the finance department ran smoothly, not to pry into the storm behind the glass walls.
Still, her eyes strayed to his office now and then. He hadn't called her in. He hadn't even acknowledged her presence. That part stung more than she'd admit.
Meetings passed, tasks were assigned, reports delivered. Lunchtime came and went, and Damien remained in his cabin. Even Lucien didn't dare disturb him unless absolutely necessary.
Celeste didn't realize how tense she had grown until Maya nudged her arm and slid over a sandwich.
"You haven't eaten. And don't deny it. I can hear your stomach growling."
Celeste chuckled softly. "Thanks."
She took a bite, trying not to overthink, but the air felt thick. Damien's silence wasn't cold. It was controlled. A mask over something seething underneath.
What had happened? Was it about the deal? Was it something personal?
A selfish part of her hoped it wasn't about her.
Later in the afternoon, her phone buzzed. A meeting request—from Damien. Just her name on it.
She took a steadying breath, smoothed down her borrowed blouse, and walked toward his door. Before she knocked, it opened.
He stood there, eyes sharp yet unreadable.
"Come in, Celeste."
She nodded, stepping inside.
It was silent for a beat too long. Then he gestured for her to sit. His voice, when he spoke, was calm. Almost too calm.
"We need to talk numbers."
Business. Always business. And yet, the way his eyes lingered on her as she pulled out her notes said otherwise. Something was simmering beneath the surface. And for now, she decided, she wouldn't ask.
Not yet.
But she was watching. And she wouldn't forget that Damien Moreau's silence often said more than his words ever could.
The sun had long disappeared behind the city skyline, leaving behind only a dim hue of purple and gold against the towering buildings. The office was quiet, eerily so, save for the rhythmic tapping of keys and the occasional rustle of papers. Most of the employees had left hours ago, their laughter and goodbyes now nothing but distant echoes.
Celeste glanced at the clock — it was nearing 9 PM. Her eyes shifted to Damien, who was seated at his desk with a glass of amber liquid in hand. She had noticed his silence all day. His mood had been off, darker than usual, like a storm brewing just beneath his composed exterior. Still, he hadn't said a word about it. Not even when Lucien had tried to strike up his usual teasing banter.
Celeste busied herself with organizing the last of the spreadsheets, typing out emails, and doing anything she could to avoid the tension looming in the air. Her instincts told her to give him space, but the longer they stayed in the office, the harder it became to ignore the atmosphere. The silence between them was no longer comfortable — it was weighted, brimming with unsaid thoughts and unresolved feelings.
Damien sighed and pushed the glass toward her. "Would you mind pouring me another?"
She hesitated but nodded, walking toward the bar counter in the corner of the room. She lifted the expensive bottle of whiskey and glanced at him. "You sure you should be drinking this much, boss?"
He gave a soft chuckle, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't worry. I can handle it."
Celeste poured him another, slower this time, watching the amber liquid swirl in the crystal glass. "Still. It's a bit much, isn't it? You've been quiet all day. And now drinking alone? That's not you."
He took the drink from her hand but didn't sip it right away. Instead, he stared at the glass, his jaw tightening. "How would you know what 'me' is like?"
She blinked at the sudden sharpness in his voice. "I don't. But I'm trying to. That's… kinda the point, isn't it?"
Damien sighed and leaned back in his chair, glass still in hand. "Sorry. That wasn't fair."
Celeste took a seat across from him, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Bad day?"
He laughed bitterly. "Something like that."
She waited, giving him time. He wasn't the type to open up easily, but something about tonight felt different — raw.
Damien finally downed the drink and set the glass down with a soft clink. "You ever feel like… everything you're doing is for nothing? Like you're chasing some goal, some idea, but the closer you get, the more meaningless it all feels?"
Celeste didn't answer right away. That hit too close to home.
"Yeah," she finally said. "More often than I'd like to admit."
Damien looked at her, really looked at her this time. His usual intense stare was softened by whatever emotions were storming inside him — regret, sadness, frustration. "You're lucky, you know. You don't have the kind of ghosts that follow you home."
She smiled sadly. "You'd be surprised."
They sat there for a while in silence. The clock ticked on, but neither moved. There was something oddly comforting in their shared stillness.
Celeste stood up, took the bottle, and walked back to the counter. "You've had enough," she said gently.
Damien didn't argue. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, head slightly bowed. "You're right."
As she packed away the bottle, she added quietly, "Whatever it is, you're not alone. You don't have to be."
Damien's lips curled into a faint smile. For the first time all day, he looked a little less burdened.
And Celeste, pouring herself a glass of water, looked over at him — unsure what it meant yet, but knowing something had shifted between them tonight.
Damien Moreau was known to the world as the fearsome CEO, the man whose name alone sent shivers down the spines of rivals. But right now, seated in his sleek, dimly lit office with the shadows of the city skyline stretching across the floor, he looked nothing like the formidable tycoon.
He looked like a sulking child.
"You don't get it, Celeste," Damien murmured, voice slurred ever so slightly, resting his chin on the table. "I was supposed to fix everything today. And instead, I yelled at my team… again."
Celeste, still half-leaning against the table, glass in hand, raised a brow. "And what part of that did you think drinking yourself silly would help?"
Damien pouted. Actually pouted.
"I deserve it," he muttered. "Lucien would've gotten it right. That bastard always gets it right."
She blinked, fighting the twitch in her lips. "You're seriously jealous of Lucien now?"
"He's taller," Damien sulked. "And his stupid hair stays perfect. I yelled at someone over a comma today. A comma!"
Celeste tilted her head. "A comma?"
"A comma, Celeste! It was just… floating there. Like it didn't know where it belonged. I relate."
Now she couldn't help it. She laughed. A soft, melodic giggle that seemed to sober Damien for a heartbeat. He looked up, eyes glassy but still sharp.
"You have a nice laugh," he whispered.
Celeste rolled her eyes and walked around the desk. "You're impossible tonight. Come on, stop drinking."
But instead of listening, Damien grabbed the bottle, cradling it like a precious treasure.
"Mine," he muttered childishly. "You already took the meeting, the win, the whole damn spotlight. Let me keep this."
Celeste knelt a little to meet his eyes. "You're pouting like a five-year-old."
"I am not. I'm a sophisticated drunk."
"You're a brat," she countered, amused.
He sighed dramatically, flopping back against his chair, arms hanging loose. "You just don't get it, Celeste."
"Enlighten me."
He peeked through half-lidded eyes. "You walk into my life. All confident. All… radiant. Fixing things like it's nothing. And I'm here. Throwing tantrums over grammar."
"You're being dramatic," she said, voice softening.
"Maybe," he shrugged. Then added, dead serious, "But I still hate Lucien's perfect hair."
Celeste chuckled again, reaching for the bottle. This time, he let her take it.