CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SELENE’s POV

The Beaumont Charity Luncheon was Celeste Laurent’s territory in every sense that mattered.

She had chaired the event for three consecutive years, curated the guest list personally, and used it to cement the exact kind of social influence that old money families understood better than any business transaction.

The luncheon wasn’t about raising funds. It was about who sat where who was invited, and perhaps more importantly, who wasn’t. I had received an invitation anyway.

Clara had flagged it the moment it arrived, a black envelope with gold embossed lettering, hand-delivered to Arden Tower three days ago. There was no note inside, just the invitation itself, precise and impersonal.

I had accepted it immediately. Though, not because I wanted to attend. But because declining would have looked like exactly what it was— avoidance. And Selene Arden doesn’t avoid anything.

The venue was a restored heritage building in the older part of the city, the kind of architecture that existed to remind newer money how long established families had been accumulating theirs. Tall ceilings, pale stone walls, tall arched windows letting afternoon light fall across circles of elegantly dressed tables.

I arrived exactly on time…though not early, which would have looked eager, but not late, which would have looked careless.

The room was already full when I entered. Conversations paused briefly the way they always did when I walked into a space, that particular ripple of awareness moving outward from the entrance before everything resumed.

Clara had remained downstairs with the car per my instruction. I had come in alone today deliberately. Arriving with an entourage at Celeste’s event would have read as defensive, while arriving alone would be read as unbothered. I know that.

A hostess guided me toward my assigned table near the center of the room. I noted the placement immediately.

Center tables at events like this were not simply convenient. They were visible from every angle, which meant whoever sat there could be observed by the entire room without appearing to be watched. It was the kind of seating that felt like an honor and functioned like a stage.

Celeste had seated me at the center of her room.

I sat in my chair calmly and accepted a glass of water from a passing server.

The women already seated at my table introduced themselves in turn. They were two society figures I recognized by reputation, a foreign ambassador’s wife, and a senior editor from one of the city’s most widely read publications.

Celeste herself appeared twenty minutes later into the luncheon, moving through the room with the effortless grace of someone entirely comfortable commanding a space. She wore silk today, understated and deliberate, the kind of choice that communicated authority without competing for attention.

She greeted tables as she moved, pausing briefly at each one, a warm word here, a polished smile there. The room responded to her the way rooms responded to people who understood social architecture.

She reached my table.

“Miss Arden.” Her smile arrived perfectly on cue. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” I replied evenly.

She sat briefly in the empty chair beside me that I hadn’t noticed was unoccupied until that moment. A deliberate choice Celeste had arranged to sit beside me.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you properly,” she said, her voice warm enough for the table to hear. “We keep crossing paths at these events without any real conversation.”

“Business tends to dominate these gatherings,” I replied.

“Doesn’t it.” She laughed softly. The table laughed with her.

I took a sip of water.

The luncheon moved forward. Food arrived in courses, conversation flowed across the table, and Celeste played her role flawlessly…an attentive host, a gracious presence. The kind of woman who made everyone around her feel included while maintaining absolute control of the atmosphere.

I watched her work and sensed a feeling close to reluctant acknowledgment. Celeste Laurent was genuinely skilled at this. Whatever else she was, she had earned her place in these rooms through years of precise social navigation.

Then the editor from the publication leaned forward slightly during a lull in conversation.

“Miss Arden, I’ve been following Arden Corporation’s movements closely this past month. Remarkable trajectory, I must say.” She paused with a smile that had been carefully positioned. “Though, I do want to ask about what came across my desk this morning.”

I looked toward her calmly. “Of course.”

The editor glanced briefly toward Celeste, just enough for me to catch before continuing.

“There’s a story circulating among financial reporters,” she said. “Something about irregularities in Arden Corporation’s original capital formation. Specifically around how the company was funded in its early stages.”

The table went slightly quieter. I kept my expression plain.

“Irregularities is a broad term.” I said

“It is,” the editor agreed pleasantly. “The specific claim is that Arden Corporation’s founding capital cannot be fully traced through legitimate public channels. That the origins of the initial investment are…” “how was it phrased…deliberately obscured.”

Across the table, the society figures exchanged the smallest of glances. The ambassador’s wife kept her eyes fixed on her plate. The editor watched me with the practiced neutrality of someone who had delivered difficult questions to powerful people many times before and understood that the reaction mattered more than the answer.

And beside me, Celeste sat with her hands folded on her lap, her expression, one of composed concern. The performance of a woman who had orchestrated the very question that had just been asked at her own table in front of her own carefully selected audience.

I set my water glass down quietly. In the seven seconds of silence that followed, I ran through every possible response and discarded each one that carried even a trace of defensiveness. Defensiveness sometimes means confirmation.

“Capital formation in private corporations operates across multiple jurisdictions and investment structures,” I said evenly. “What reads as obscured to a reporter unfamiliar with international private equity is often simply the normal architecture of how significant wealth moves across markets.” I paused briefly. “If a specific publication intends to run a story making that claim, I’d encourage them to consult a financial attorney before printing. Arden Corporation’s legal team responds quickly.”

The last sentence landed exactly where I intended it to. The editor’s pleasant expression remained intact but I noticed the flicker behind it. The ambassador’s wife finally looked up from her plate. Celeste smiled beside me without speaking.

But I caught the slight adjustment in her posture.

The almost invisible tightening around her smile.

She had expected a crack, some flicker of unease visible enough for the table to absorb and carry outward into the rooms and conversations that would follow this luncheon for days.

The conversation shifted naturally to other topics. I participated where necessary, said less rather than more, and let the remainder of the luncheon pass without giving Celeste another opening.

When the event concluded about two hours later, I was among the first to rise. I said the appropriate goodbyes around the table, thanked the editor with a smile that contained nothing, and turned toward the exit.

Celeste appeared at my side before I reached the door.

“I hope the luncheon was worthwhile,” she said quietly. Privately now, the performance adjusted for an audience of two.

“It was informative,” I replied without slowing my pace.

“The question about your capital formation,” she began.

“Was yours,” I said simply.

She didn’t deny it, Celeste Laurent was not a woman who wasted energy on denial when the person in front of her was already past the point of being deceived.

“You’ve disrupted a great deal since arriving,” she said politely. “People notice.”

“People are meant to.” I replied with a smile.

We had reached the entrance. Afternoon light fell through the arched doorway ahead. I stopped and turned toward her fully for the first time since the conversation began.

Up close, Celeste was exactly what she had always been. Beautiful, controlled, and operating from a position of genuine fear beneath the polish. I recognized fear when I saw it, I had worn it myself for seven years inside a marriage that slowly consumed me.

“Miss Arden.” Her voice dropped lower. “I don’t know what your interest in Laurent Group is. But I want you to understand that whatever you think you’re building here,” she paused with a smile that didn’t reach anything above her mouth “there are people in this city who have been building far longer.”

I looked at her for one quiet second. Then I said the only thing worth saying.

“I know,” I replied softly. “I watched them do it.”

I walked out before her expression finished changing. Marcus had the car waiting, I got in, the door closed, and the noise of the afternoon disappeared behind the tinted glass.

I sat with both hands resting on my lap and said nothing for a long moment. Celeste had made her move today. cleanly and in public. A planted question at her own table, the right audience, the right publication and the right moment.

If I had stumbled even slightly, that story would have run within the week and Arden Corporation’s reputation among the city’s elite would have absorbed damage that took months to rebuild.

She seem far more dangerous than I had been treating her.

I had spent the past weeks focused on Adrian, on Leonard, on the conspiracy surrounding my accident. I had watched Celeste as a background figure, though present and relevant, but secondary. Today, she had reminded me that she had not survived this long by being secondary to anyone.

Clara looked back from the front seat beside Marcus.

“Miss Arden, Damien Laurent requested a meeting with you today in his office. He says it’s personal.”

I ponder on the words for a moment.

Damien Laurent had never spoken a direct word to me since my return. He had watched from the edges of every room we shared. And now, on the same afternoon Celeste had made her first direct move, Damien wanted a personal meeting too.

I leaned back into the car seat I sat. Two moves in one day from two different directions, this is getting more interesting.

“Marcus,” I called softly.

“Yes, Miss Arden?”

I looked ahead at the city moving past the windows.

“Take me back to the tower.”