It was midnight. Celeste lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. The text message and the way Damien had reacted were keeping her awake. Plus, despite everything, Celeste really wanted to trust him.
She had spent her entire life controlling her own narrative. Every move calculated, every emotion hidden behind the perfect smile. And yet, somehow, Damien Sinclair was peeling back those layers without even trying, and that infuriated her even more. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, fighting sleep, but a noise outside her room snapped her fully awake. A soft click. The click of a door closing.Her heart pounded. Slipping out of bed, she grabbed heĺ silk robe from the chair and carefully, she padded barefoot down the hallway, her breath shallow. The living room was dimly lit, and at first, she thought she was alone. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Damien standing near the floor-to-ceiling window, with a drink in his hand, his silhouette outlined against the city lights. She exhaled, letting some of the tension slip from her shoulders. As she stepped forward, his voice cut through the silence. “You should be asleep.” Celeste frowned. “So should you.” Damien turned slowly, his grey eyes unreadable in the dim light. He was still dressed from earlier, wearing his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the image of effortless power. “I don’t sleep much,” he admitted. She crossed her arms. “Guilt keeping you up?” His lips curved. “I don’t do guilt, Celeste.” She didn’t doubt that, but somwthing didnt feel right, something in his behaviour was off. “You didn’t tell me Julian was watching me.” Damien’s jaw tightened, and for a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer. “He’s been circling for a while. He’s waiting for the moment you slip.” Celeste shivered. “Why?” Damien swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it like it held all the answers. “Because people like Julian don’t create stories,” he said quietly. “They destroy them. And you…” His gaze lifted, locking onto hers. “You’re a headline worth ruining.” She swallowed hard, trying to absorb just this little information. Julian had always thrived on scandal, on twisting reality into something ugly. And now, with her engagement to Damien, she was in his crosshairs. She took a slow breath, steadying herself. "I can handle him,” she said. Damien’s smirk was humorless. “That’s the problem.” She frowned. “What does that mean?” “It means,” he said, stepping closer, “that Julian doesn’t play by the same rules you do. He’s not after an exposé he wants destruction, and if you’re not careful, he’ll burn you to the ground.” Her stomach twisted, but she refused to let the fear show. "Then I’ll just have to be smarter than him.” Damien studied her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable, then he let out a low, dark laughter. “What?” she snapped. He shook his head, amusement flickering through his eyes. “You really don’t get it, do you?” Celeste bristled. “Enlighten me.” Damien exhaled, stepping even closer, his scent, dark spice and something uniquely him, wrapping around her. “The only way to beat Julian,” he murmured, “is to stop playing fair.” A shiver ran down her spine at the way he said it, it wasn't a suggestion but a clear warning. By the time Celeste arrived at the media event the following morning for Vogue, she had pushed the conversation with Damien to the back of her mind. Or at least, she had tried to. The press conference was being held in a luxury ballroom, filled with journalists, cameras, and some of the biggest names in the industry. Celeste moved through the crowd with effortless grace, her black silk dress hugging her frame as she took her seat at the long panel table. Beside her, Damien sat, his presence commanding without a word. To the world, they were the picture of a power couple. They looked untouchable, even unshakable. Until - "Celeste,” a voice called from the audience. “One question.” The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She knew that voice. It belonged to no one other than Julian Mercer. Standing at the back of the room with a microphone in hand, his smirk sharp enough to cut. Damien’s entire body went still beside her, and the room quieted. Julian tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Your engagement to Mr. Sinclair happened rather suddenly. Some people are wondering...” His smirk deepened. “Is this love, or just another PR stunt?” Celeste forced her expression to remain neutral, even as her pulse pounded. She could feel Damien beside her, tense and dangerous. She could let him handle this, but she wasn’t about to let Julian Mercer win, so she smiled, a slow, deliberate, and lethal smile. “I understand why people might be sceptical,” she said smoothly. “After all, love in the spotlight is often a fragile thing.” Julian’s smirk widened as if he thought she was walking into his trap. But Celeste wasn’t finished. She turned, looking at Damien, letting the cameras capture every second of it. Then, in front of the entire room, she leaned in and kissed him. The moment their lips met, the room exploded. Flashbulbs. Shouting. A frenzy of movement. But all Celeste could focus on was him. Damien’s hand slid to the back of her neck, his grip firm, his mouth pressing against hers with slow, deliberate intensity. The kiss was supposed to be for show. It was supposed to be controlled. But the moment his lips moved against hers, the second he deepened the kiss just enough, she forgot where they were. She forgot about the cameras, and everything else around them. When they finally pulled apart, Damien’s gaze burned into hers, something dark and unforgiving flickering behind his stormy grey eyes. Celeste barely had time to process it before he turned his attention back to Julian and, with a smirk, said, “Does that answer your question?” The room erupted in chaos, and Julian’s jaw clenched, the first flicker of frustration crossing his face. Celeste felt a rush of triumph, but as she turned back to Damien, still breathless, still feeling the phantom heat of his lips against hers, she realized that the rules had just changed and she wasn’t sure she was ready for what came next.The last shot of Low Tide wrapped just before dawn. The three of them, Celeste, Damien, and Quinn, stood barefoot on the damp sand as the sun broke the horizon. Celeste’s voice was hoarse, her eyes raw from too many truths spoken into Quinn’s battered camera.When Quinn finally lowered the lens, no one spoke. There was only the hush of the waves and the quiet tremor in Celeste’s chest, like a second heartbeat that belonged to Damien.They didn’t rush to pack. They didn’t rush to leave. Quinn disappeared up the bluff to call in the rough cut, her footsteps fading behind the dunes. Celeste and Damien stayed behind. Just them and the morning tide.“You did it,” Damien murmured, brushing a fleck of sand from her cheekbone. His voice held something like awe, and something older, something that tasted like years reclaimed.“No,” she said, leaning into his palm. “We did it.”He laughed softly, the sound dissolving into the wind. “You’re right. We did.”She rested her forehead against his. Cl
They didn’t book some cold hotel conference room for their first official meeting. Instead, they took over Marisol’s converted loft downtown, high ceilings, old brick walls, windows that let the late spring sun pour through like liquid gold.Celeste stood at the edge of the makeshift “war room”: a giant reclaimed wood table covered in legal pads, laptops, empty coffee cups. Damien, for once, wasn’t wearing his armor of suit and tie. He’d rolled his sleeves up, top buttons undone, leaning back in a battered chair that looked out of place under the skylight.Aisha had her hair piled high and was tapping at her phone between scribbles on a whiteboard. Quinn sat cross-legged on the floor with a legal pad, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. Marisol paced, barefoot, balancing a cup of espresso on her palm. It felt raw and real. Celeste loved it immediately.She leaned in, elbows braced on the table. “Okay, we know the pitch. We know the stakes. Where do we bleed first?”Quinn look
The city was soft in the hour before dawn. From the penthouse balcony, Celeste could see the sprawl of Los Angeles stretching endlessly west, lights flickering out as the night receded. It felt quieter than usual, like a hush that follows a storm that never quite made landfall.She sipped her tea, the mug warm in her palms, and let the memory of the televised interview replay in pieces. Arthur’s restless eyes. Priya’s calm voice. Her own words, spoken without script or spin.She’d slept after, tangled up in Damien’s arms, the two of them too exhausted to do anything but breathe each other in. She’d expected to wake to chaos, headlines twisted beyond recognition, opportunists circling again. But instead, her phone held something else: messages that felt different. Real. Not just fans or gossip rags, but from women in the industry. Quiet thanks. Small confessions. Words she recognized because once, they would have been hers.She was still sitting there, barefoot in Damien’s old shirt,
The studio was colder than she expected, one of those glass-box sets they used for high-profile “special interviews,” polished within an inch of its life, but still smelling faintly of coffee, nerves, and old wiring.Celeste sat alone at first, the countdown clock blinking red in the corner, a quiet pulse in her periphery. Across from her, the single chair Arthur Fielding would occupy sat empty, its leather seat gleaming under the ring lights.She rested her hands on her knees, fingers smoothing the fabric of her pale silk blouse. Jade had picked it, something soft but serious, no statement pieces, no sharp shoulder pads, just Celeste, clean and unarmored.Damien stood behind the cameras, just outside the cone of lights. His arms folded, expression unreadable except for the subtle clench of his jaw every time a floor manager moved too close to her line of sight. He didn’t need to say it: One wrong word and I’ll burn this building down.The host, a seasoned journalist named Priya Anand
They found the shell company within forty-eight hours. Calloway delivered the name on a rainy Wednesday, dropping a manila folder on Damien’s office table with a grim smile that said this rabbit hole’s about to get interesting. Celeste stood beside Damien as they read the cover sheet. The shell company was listed under an innocuous string of letters, Palladium Holdings, but the money trail looped back through two offshore accounts and finally landed somewhere in Zurich. “Anonymous ownership, layers of nominees,” Calloway explained, tapping the folder. “Someone wants this to look like a lone memoir, but they’re funneling real money into it. Promotion, distribution, the whole package.” Celeste pinched the bridge of her nose. “Someone wants this to stick. Not just a tabloid splash, but a legacy stain.” Damien closed the folder, fingers drumming the desk. “Do we know who’s behind Palladium?” Calloway lifted a shoulder. “We’re close. But it smells like someone who’d benefit from you
They’d woken late, still tangled in the quiet aftermath of the dinner, the string lights from the terrace barely cool when dawn crept over the city. Celeste had drifted back to sleep after Damien slid out of bed to make coffee, this time not the programmable kind, but by hand, something ritualistic in the press and pour.When she finally wandered barefoot into the kitchen, the scent of dark roast and toasted bread met her first. Damien was at the counter, sleeves pushed up, phone tucked between shoulder and jaw, murmuring something in that even tone he reserved for early calls.She lingered in the doorway, just watching him: the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the clipped way he said "Understood" before ending the call. He placed the phone down face-first on the marble island and didn’t immediately look at her.She knew that look. The one he’d worn when headlines blindsided them. When Veronica’s claws were at their deepest. When survival meant fighting battles at breakfast.