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Celeste Lorrain, eternal nightwalker, predator of ages, heiress to an empire of secrets and steel, was currently...
Sprawled on her expensive leather couch.
In sweatpants.
Eating frozen strawberries straight from the box.
The jazz music in her penthouse had long faded. Now, the only sound was the soft hum of the city far below and the occasional pathetic sigh she let slip while kicking her bare feet against the armrest.
Her assistant, Dana, cautiously peeked through the glass door.
"You've been like this for three hours."
Celeste rolled her head toward her without lifting it. "I'm mourning."
Dana entered, unimpressed. "Did someone die?"
"No."
"Did you kill someone?"
Celeste made a face. "Rude."
Dana crossed her arms. "Then what are you mourning?"
"My dignity."
"…Ah. It's the intern again."
Celeste groaned, rolled onto her stomach, and smushed her face into a cushion. "She let me walk her home. She let me touch her hair. She didn't slap me. I think that means we're dating."
Dana blinked. "You do know in human society, most of that is classified under 'casual interaction.' Not courtship."
"Then human standards are too cruel," Celeste muttered.
---
By 11:00 PM, the strawberries were gone, her playlist had shifted to sad French piano instrumentals, and she had reread their rooftop conversation at least nine times in her head.
It wasn't that Miki had smiled.
She hadn't.
Not once.
But she had spoken.
Voluntarily.
That was progress. For someone like Miki, whose emotional range in public consisted of "neutral" to "mild irritation," a full exchange with no sarcasm was practically a love letter.
Celeste sat at her desk and opened the black velvet journal she'd kept since the 1800s.
She usually wrote in it after feeding, or before killing someone, or when her boredom stretched into centuries.
Tonight, she wrote:
> She let me walk her home. She still called me unsettling, but she wasn't afraid. Not really. That's the difference, isn't it?
She paused.
Then, carefully, in smaller script, added:
> She's cautious, not cold. There's a door somewhere in her, and I saw it creak open today.
And still smaller:
> I want to be the one she lets in.
---
By midnight, Celeste was on her balcony in a silk robe, staring at the stars.
She didn't sleep. Not like humans did. But she rested sometimes — mentally, spiritually.
Tonight, she couldn't.
She kept remembering the way Miki had looked at her when she said, "You're trying to make me forget who you are."
Celeste whispered into the night air, as if Miki might hear it:
> "I don't want you to forget. I just want you to see the parts of me that don't have fangs."
---
The next morning, she arrived at the office uncharacteristically early.
Dana stared at her in shock as Celeste entered the top-floor lobby in a blazer far too casual for her usual aesthetic — navy blue with slightly rolled sleeves, and a white shirt underneath, top button undone.
"You're… dressing down?" Dana asked.
"I'm approachable now," Celeste replied, flipping her hair dramatically.
"Do you even know what that means?"
"I look like I read indie poetry and drink oat milk."
"God help us."
Celeste ignored her and strode toward the elevator. "Send Miki a task to bring a file to my office. Make it seem important but vague. Don't let her suspect anything."
"You mean don't let her know it's a trap?"
Celeste turned, eyes flashing red for a split second. "It's not a trap."
Dana smirked. "Sure, sure. Just a coincidental summons. Like the last six."
Celeste smiled, sharp and sweet. "Exactly."
---
Back at her desk, she checked the time.
Miki would be arriving in seventeen minutes.
She adjusted the lighting, sprayed the faintest touch of antique rose behind her ears, and sat — one leg over the other, lips painted like wine, fangs hidden.
Ready.
> Today, she wouldn't flirt.
> Today, she'd let Miki do the talking.
Even if it killed her.
---