Cherreads

Chapter 5 - soft lies, and softer hands

Celeste was halfway through her second glass of rosé when Dylan walked into the apartment with his tie hanging loose and his shoulders ten miles below their usual confidence line.

"You're late," she said, not looking up from her laptop.

He kissed her cheek absently, muttering, "Traffic."

She raised a brow, finally glancing at him. "You don't drive, Dylan."

He flinched. "Right. Yeah. Uber traffic."

She paused her typing. "Long day?"

He sank onto the couch with a sigh. "You have no idea."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Celeste asked the question as casually as someone pulling a pin from a grenade. "So... how's your new investor meeting going?"

He didn't answer immediately.

She turned slowly in her chair, folding her arms.

"Dylan."

"It's fine," he said, rubbing his forehead. "It's... intense."

"What does that mean?"

"It means Hartley Studios doesn't play around."

Celeste's eyes narrowed. "Wait, Hartley Studios? That's the company?"

Dylan hesitated. "Yeah."

"Isn't that... Zara's?"

He looked up.

Mistake.

The flash of recognition in her eyes was instant.

"Zara Hartley? As in your Zara?"

He shifted. "It's not like that. It's a contract. Business only."

"You're working with your wife?" she asked, each word dipped in disbelief.

"Technically—"

"Technically, you're still married to her."

Dylan sighed. "I know how this looks—"

"Oh good," Celeste said, rising to her feet, "because from where I'm standing, it looks like my fiancé is back in the orbit of the woman who vanished three years ago without a word, who never signed a divorce paper, and who now owns the company that's rescuing your reputation."

Dylan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

"She's cold, Celeste. It's all business. She barely looks at me. I might as well be a wall fixture."

Celeste stared at him. "And that makes it better?"

A tense pause.

Then she took a breath, calmer now. "Look, I trust you. I do. But I've seen Zara's pictures. I've heard what people say about her. If she wants something, she gets it. No matter who's in the way."

"She doesn't want me," Dylan said softly.

Celeste stared at him for a long moment, lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something else—but didn't.

"Let's hope you're right."

Celeste didn't storm off.

She sat down instead.

Slowly. Purposefully. Right beside him on the couch.

The tension in the room didn't leave—it just curled into the corners like smoke. Dylan stared ahead, elbows on his knees, guilt hanging on his shoulders like a tailored coat.

"I shouldn't have snapped," Celeste said softly, her fingers playing with the hem of her silk blouse. "I just… I wasn't expecting that name to come up again."

He turned to her. "Celeste—"

"I'm not jealous," she added quickly, even though her voice betrayed a flicker of it. "I mean… maybe I am. Just a little. I know she left you. I know you didn't chase her. But she's still in the picture now, and that picture is technically framed in diamond rings."

Dylan reached out, brushing a stray curl from her face. "She's a ghost, Celeste. A cold one. You're the only thing that feels real right now."

Celeste blinked at him, surprised. "Then prove it."

She climbed into his lap slowly, deliberately—her legs draped over his, arms curled around his neck. Her skin was warm. Familiar. She smelled like vanilla and ambition.

Dylan hesitated for a moment, then wrapped his arms around her waist, grounding himself in the moment.

She whispered, "Remind me I'm the one you want."

He kissed her—not out of obligation, but almost like he was trying to answer a question in his own head. Her lips moved against his with practiced rhythm, sweet and eager.

"I missed you today," she murmured.

"I was just across town."

"Still missed you."

He smiled faintly, a hand moving to her back, fingertips brushing the space where her spine dipped. She tilted her head and kissed him again, deeper this time—more urgent.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. Her warmth. His breath. The soft hum of the city beyond the balcony.

But just beneath that warmth… was a flicker of something else.

Something Dylan couldn't quite name.

It wasn't desire.

It wasn't guilt.

It was… memory.

He pulled her closer, hoping it would drown it out.

Celeste rested her forehead against his. "She doesn't get to have you back, okay?"

He nodded against her. "She doesn't even want me."

"Then we're safe."

He smiled and kissed her again.

But a small, unwelcome thought whispered through him like static.

You're not the one who left.

\---

Zara's penthouse didn't hum with life.

It pulsed with silence.

Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled moonlight across cool marble floors, casting long, dramatic shadows against walls painted in smoky gray and slate. The city skyline stretched endlessly beyond the glass, glittering like someone had spilled diamonds over midnight.

She sat curled on her cream velvet chaise, legs tucked under her, a glass of red wine untouched in her hand.

In her lap, a closed manila envelope. Inside: a printed copy of the contract Dylan had signed. She didn't need to open it again—she knew every clause, every clause's sub-clause, and every loophole sewn in tight like seams on couture.

Still, she held it like it meant something.

Not because it did.

But because he did—once.

A low jazz tune played softly in the background, her favorite Coltrane vinyl murmuring through invisible speakers. She barely heard it. Her gaze stayed locked on the far wall, unmoving, like she was watching a memory unravel across it.

Three years.

No contact.

No letters.

No explanations.

And yet… there he was.

In her building.

In her boardroom.

In her orbit again.

The man who once said her face made his heart ache in sorrow… was now sitting behind her glass walls, blinking like a deer in a boardroom full of wolves.

Zara exhaled through her nose and finally took a slow sip of wine. Her expression didn't change. She didn't sigh or smirk. She didn't cry. She just… existed.

Like ice.

But inside her chest, somewhere behind the silk robe and spine of steel, a strange little warmth tugged at her thoughts. Annoying. Persistent. Like a mosquito wearing his cologne.

And for a moment—just one—she allowed herself a single question:

Would he have come back if he had a choice?

The glass touched her lips again.

She drank this time.

And when she stood, her robe flowing behind her like midnight fog, Zara Hartley was herself again.

Untouched. Unbothered.

Unbreakable.

More Chapters