Celeste watched Damien with an amused softness in her gaze, her lips curving into a smile she didn't even try to hide. The man who usually radiated dominance, cold authority, and unapproachable brilliance was currently sprawled across the office couch, his tie loose and hair slightly messy, pouting like a grumpy child denied a toy. He looked up at her with that boyish frown, mumbling about how no one listens to him anymore. Her heart did a little flip.
She shouldn't find him endearing. Not when he was technically taken, not when she was trying so hard to keep things professional. But watching him now—tipsy and vulnerable, eyes drowsy but still tracing her every move—something tugged inside her. Maybe it was how he trusted her enough to let down his guard. Or maybe it was just him. Damien in all his flawed, unfiltered glory. He made her heart ache and flutter all at once.
She found herself tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear and whispering, "You're impossible," more fond than annoyed. And for a moment, as he leaned into her touch like a sleepy cat, she let herself adore him—just a little.
"Fine. But only because you have pretty fingers."
"Damien."
"What? I'm drunk. I'm allowed to admire your fingers."
Celeste poured the rest of the drink into a glass, far away from his reach.
Damien slumped, arms folded on the desk, resting his cheek on them. "I messed up today."
"You didn't," she said, leaning beside him.
"I did. And you cleaned it up. Like always. Like some… brilliant goddess of finance with a killer stare."
She was going to roll her eyes again, but something about the way he said it made her pause.
He wasn't teasing. He looked genuinely… small.
"You're not a failure, Damien."
"I feel like one," he whispered.
"You're just drunk. And pouty. And kind of cute right now."
His head snapped up. "You think I'm cute?"
"You're a mess."
"Still counts. You said it. It counts."
She shook her head, smiling.
Damien groaned and let his forehead hit the desk. "Can we nap here? Just for five minutes."
"You want to nap in your office?"
"With you nearby? Yes. It's safe here."
Celeste looked at him, at the rare softness on his face, and bit the inside of her cheek.
Maybe he was more than a drunk CEO throwing tantrums.
Maybe he was just a man. Tired, overwhelmed, and secretly craving comfort.
And she—for some insane reason—wanted to be that comfort.
Even if it meant watching him pout and fight over bottles like a toddler.
Especially then.
The hallway was quiet when Celeste stepped out to lock her office. The soft clack of her heels echoed in the dim corridor, the silence only interrupted by the low hum of machines left running for the night. She took her time, enjoying the calm, oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere awaiting her back in Damien Leclair's office.
It had only been five minutes, maybe even less, but when she walked in, her heart dropped.
Damien was seated in his leather chair, his posture slumped like someone defeated by a weight too heavy to carry. His face was buried in his hands, shoulders trembling. The bottle of whiskey on the desk had barely moved from where she last saw it, but the scent of alcohol in the room said otherwise. And Damien Leclair, the man known for being composed, confident, and unshakably precise—was crying.
She moved without a second thought, gently closing the door behind her. Damien didn't look up until she stood in front of him. He lifted his red-rimmed eyes, glistening with vulnerability, and without a word, reached forward, wrapping his arms around her waist.
Caught between his arms and the edge of his desk, Celeste stood frozen for half a second. Damien leaned forward, burying his face into her shoulder, muffling a broken breath against the fabric of her blouse. His grip was tight but not desperate—just enough to make it clear that for the moment, he needed her.
She slowly lifted her hands, placing them on his head. Her fingers ran gently through his hair, caressing him with a tenderness that needed no words. Celeste stood between his legs, close enough to feel the quiet shake of his chest as he cried. One hand trailed down to his shoulder, the other brushing softly through his dark strands.
He didn't speak. Not yet. But the ache that clung to him in silence was louder than any scream.
Celeste didn't press for answers. Not tonight. Not when Damien Leclair, a man who rarely faltered, had let his mask slip in front of her. So she stood still, letting him fall apart quietly in her arms, her steady breath and silent warmth grounding him in a world he didn't trust anymore.
Celeste stood frozen for a moment, her body still against Damien Leclair's as he clung to her like a drowning man. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his face buried in her shoulder, and muffled sobs shook his entire frame. She hadn't expected to return from locking her office to this. Damien, the man who held the world with his bare hands, reduced to a trembling mess on his chair.
Her fingers threaded softly through his hair, stroking gently, whispering reassurance without a single word. The quiet hum of the empty office made the moment feel even more intimate. Damien clutched her tighter as though she might disappear.
"Damien…" she finally whispered, voice like silk.
And then it was like a dam broke.
He sobbed harder, shaking his head against her. "I'm so tired, Celeste… so fucking tired."
She didn't say anything, letting her hand drift to his nape, grounding him.
"Every day it's something new. Meetings. Deals. Expectations. I'm always supposed to have the answers, always supposed to be perfect."
Celeste lowered herself slowly, still between his legs, kneeling until she could look up into his tear-rimmed eyes. Her hands rested on his thighs as she gave him her full attention.
"You're not alone anymore," she said, simply.
Damien looked down at her, broken and vulnerable. "I didn't want this life, you know? I wanted to build something for myself. I wanted to matter. But now, it's like everything I do… it's for someone else. Their needs. Their expectations. What about me, Celeste? What about what I want?"
She swallowed, keeping her gaze soft. "What do you want, Damien?"
He leaned back in his chair, dragging both hands down his face. His voice cracked. "A family. Not the perfect kind the world parades around. Just someone to come home to. Someone who'll care if I eat. If I sleep. If I'm okay. Someone who'll see me and not the empire I run."
Celeste stood slowly and sat sideways on his lap, one hand on his cheek. "You want love, Damien. And that's not weakness. That's human."
He leaned into her palm like a man starved for comfort. His lips trembled. "I thought I could do it all. Be everything. But it's breaking me."
"Then stop trying to be everything," she murmured. "Start being just… you."
His arms curled around her again, not as tightly this time, just enough to hold on. Her presence steadied him, like an anchor. For a moment, they said nothing. There were only soft breaths, the distant hum of fluorescent lights, and the muted city sounds far below.
"I've never told anyone that before," he said, voice low.
"I'm glad you told me."
His fingers traced the hem of her sleeve. "Why do you stay, Celeste? Why do you deal with my moods, my silence, all the chaos I bring?"
"Because beneath all that, there's a man who feels too much and says too little. A man who needs someone, even if he won't admit it. And because… maybe I needed someone too."
His eyes fluttered shut. The silence between them felt warm.
Celeste brushed her lips lightly to his temple. "You're allowed to fall apart. And I'm not going anywhere."
For once, Damien believed her.
And maybe… just maybe, this was the beginning of something real.
He sighed deeply, burying his face against her again, and let her hold him until the night felt a little less heavy.
The air in Damien's office had turned heavy—not from tension, but from something far more fragile. Vulnerability. Celeste's fingers trembled slightly as she cupped his face and wiped the remnants of his tears with her thumbs. His eyes, bloodshot and tired, gazed at her with a softness she hadn't expected from a man like Damien Leclair.
"You can't stay slumped like this," she said gently, her voice low but firm. "Come on, let's get you somewhere more comfortable."
He didn't argue.
Sliding an arm around his shoulder, Celeste helped him up. He leaned on her more than he probably meant to, his tall frame uncharacteristically heavy. She led him slowly to the leather couch in the corner of his office, one she'd only seen in passing—never used until now. He dropped onto it with a sigh that sounded more like surrender.
Celeste crouched down, her hand resting on his knee. "I'll get you some water."
He didn't reply. Just stared at the floor with glassy eyes.
She returned quickly, kneeling again, this time offering him a glass. He accepted it wordlessly, the glass shaking in his hands. She guided it toward his lips, watching closely to make sure he drank.
When he finished, she set the glass down on the nearby table. Her hands moved without thought, her touch soft and familiar as she reached to undo the top two buttons of his shirt. His breath hitched—not out of discomfort, but more like surprise. Her fingers paused.
"It's just to help you breathe easier," she said quickly, trying not to meet his eyes. "Relax."
She could feel his gaze on her, but she kept her attention on the buttons. Once done, she sat back on her heels and glanced at him. His chest moved with slower, steadier breaths.
"I'm not leaving," she said, more gently this time. "Just close your eyes. You need sleep."
He didn't argue again. Instead, he shifted, lying sideways on the couch, one hand resting over his eyes as if trying to block out the world. Celeste stood, then knelt beside the couch again and pulled a blanket—likely kept for emergencies—over his shoulders.
Her fingers brushed his hair, brushing a stray strand away from his forehead. Damien's arm dropped from his face, and his eyes opened slightly.
"You don't have to stay," he murmured, voice hoarse and quiet.
Celeste smiled faintly. "I know. But I want to."
For a moment, he just stared at her like he didn't believe she was real. Then he closed his eyes again, sighing deeply as the weight on his chest seemed to ease.
She moved to sit beside the couch, her back resting against the armrest. The silence stretched around them, peaceful now. The only sound was the gentle hum of the city outside the tall windows and Damien's gradually slowing breath.
Celeste watched him for a while, unable to stop herself from wondering what it must have taken for a man like him to crack. He carried so much on his shoulders—his business, his image, his secrets. And still, underneath all that control, he just wanted someone to care. Someone to stay.
Tonight, she stayed.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Celeste sat beside the couch, eyes fixed on Damien's sleeping form. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint furrow still clinging to his brows—it was all so painfully human. Vulnerable. And somehow, that made her heart ache in the most unexpected way.
She hadn't expected this side of him. Damien Leclair—the cold, powerful man with eyes like winter storms and a voice sharp enough to cut—was now curled beneath a blanket like a boy worn out by the world. He hadn't barked orders or lashed out while drunk. He didn't touch her without permission. He hadn't been lewd or invasive. He had cried. He had broken. And he had done so with trembling hands and wet eyes, whispering that he was just… tired.
She never thought men could be like this. Gentle in their lowest moments.
Celeste had known men who turned ugly with liquor—loud, mean, controlling. She grew up seeing the kind who took what they wanted and made you feel like you owed them more. But Damien—he didn't try to grab her. He didn't raise his voice. He only reached for her waist because he needed something to anchor himself to, not dominate.
And she let him.
Because she wanted to be his anchor.
She adored him. She wasn't even sure when that happened. But it was there now—this inexplicable warmth swelling in her chest. It was terrifying. And real.
Celeste brushed her fingertips gently over the edge of his hairline, whispering softly, "You're not alone, Damien. Not tonight."
She meant it.
And maybe—just maybe—she hoped he would remember this when he woke up.