Chapter Two

Celeste

 

My alarm buzzed at exactly 5:45 AM, but I was already awake.

 

Not because of nerves, though I had plenty of those. Not because of Amara, who was still snuggled under her pink blankets, dreaming the dreams only six-year-olds had. But because today was the first day of the rest of my life.

 

Williams Corp had called the day after my interview. Ms. Chang’s voice had been calm but firm as she told me the EA position had been filled—but the CEO’s secretary had officially resigned, and the company needed someone to step in immediately.

 

It was temporary, she said. A trial period, she said.

 

I didn’t care if it was for a week or a day. It was a chance.

 

And I had every intention of proving myself.

 

The morning passed in a blur of breakfast, hair brushing, lunch packing, and school drop-off. Amara was excited for me—she didn’t understand everything, but she understood that Mommy had a new job, and that was a big deal. Her tiny arms wrapped around my waist as she whispered, "Good luck, Mommy." And that alone nearly undid me.

 

By 7:45, I was waiting outside our apartment building in a crisp white blouse, navy pencil skirt, and my best pair of practical heels. I checked my reflection in the window of a nearby car for the third time before a familiar honk pulled me out of my spiral.

 

“Nathan,” I breathed in relief.

 

He rolled the window down and grinned. “You look like a corporate goddess. Get in, bestie.”

 

I climbed in, adjusting my skirt. “Thanks for the ride.”

 

“Please, I wouldn’t miss your first day at a megacorp for the world. This is giving Devil Wears Prada, but like—make it trauma-healed single mom chic.”

 

I laughed, some of the tension melting. “Don’t jinx it. I just want to get through day one without spilling coffee on anyone.”

 

“You’ll do great. Just flash that ‘I’ve seen worse’ smile and bulldoze them with competence.”

 

He dropped me off in front of Williams Tower, squeezing my hand before I stepped out. “Text me if they try to murder your soul.”

 

I promised I would.

 

The lobby was exactly as pristine as I remembered—marble floors gleaming, the sound of water trickling from the indoor waterfall, and the scent of expensive cologne and ambition clinging to the air.

 

I checked in with security and was handed a sleek visitor’s pass that would work for today until my official badge was ready. HR had emailed my onboarding packet and instructions for reporting to the executive floor.

 

Thirty-ninth floor. Where the CEO worked.

 

Where he worked.

 

Even though I had only seen him for a few seconds—partially turned, phone pressed to his ear—I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that man. Sebastian. The name still didn’t ring a bell. But the way he walked, the gravity that seemed to shift when he passed, the faint sense of familiarity that clung to my spine…

 

I shook the thought away.

 

There was no way it was him.

 

The elevator doors opened to a quieter world. Fewer people. Tighter energy. Everything smelled like money and power.

 

A woman with a sleek bob met me near the reception desk at the center of the floor. “Celeste Shawn?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m Lauren. Mr. Williams’s Chief of Staff. I’ll walk you through your onboarding.”

 

She moved with precision—every step intentional. She introduced me to the executive assistants, showed me the small break area hidden behind tinted glass, and finally led me to my desk just outside the corner office.

 

His office.

 

The glass walls were frosted waist-high, but I could see the outline of the desk, the bookshelves, the sharp corners of minimalist furniture. The door was closed.

 

“Mr. Williams has an 8:30 strategy call and a 10 AM with board members,” Lauren said. “He’ll arrive at exactly 8:00. Your main tasks: filter emails, hold unnecessary calls, screen visitors, and keep his calendar from collapsing. Do not let anyone in unless he approves it. Not even senior VPs.”

 

"Understood,” I said.

 

Lauren glanced at me. “He’s direct. Not unkind, but… particular. Just stay organized and you’ll do fine.”

 

She left me with a login code, a phone list, and a day’s worth of instructions. I slipped into the chair behind my sleek glass desk and let out a slow breath.

 

8:00 on the dot.

 

The elevator chimed.

 

I looked up—and froze.

 

For a second, I thought my heart had stopped.

 

The man stepping out of the elevator wore a crisp black suit and a white shirt, no tie. His presence filled the hallway like thunder—and when his eyes briefly swept the room, my breath caught.

 

It was him.

 

The man from six years ago.

 

The man who had held me that night, kissed me like I was the only woman in the world, and disappeared by morning.

 

My body locked up.

 

The air thinned.

 

Every sound around me faded—the hum of computers, the quiet footsteps, even the ticking clock on the wall. All I could hear was my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

 

It was him. In the flesh. In a perfectly tailored suit. His hair was neater now, his face more chiseled, more mature. But those eyes—those same intense eyes I saw in the dark of that penthouse bedroom—looked right through me.

 

He didn’t recognize me.

 

Not a flicker.

 

He walked right past my desk, the scent of his cologne hitting me like a memory I hadn’t asked to relive. A jolt of something—shock, grief, longing—punched through my chest.

 

I gripped the edge of the desk to steady myself.

 

My world tilted.

 

He opened the glass door to his office and then paused. Turned.

 

And looked directly at me.

 

For one wild, breathless second, I thought maybe—just maybe—he’d remember. That he’d say my name. That he’d see me.

 

But he didn’t.

 

“Ms. Shawn,” he said, voice low and even.

 

“Yes, sir?” I barely managed to say. My throat felt like it was closing.

 

“I have a call in five. Forward anything else to Lauren until ten.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Williams.”

 

He nodded and disappeared into his office.

 

I sat there, hands shaking beneath the desk.

 

It was him.

 

Sebastian Williams.

 

He didn’t remember me.

 

But I remembered everything.

 

—

 

I stood in front of the heavy office door on the 39th floor, gripping the tray a little tighter than necessary. My heart was beating faster than I wanted to admit—nerves, maybe. Or pride.

 

I wasn’t asked to bring coffee.

But I still made one. For him.

 

Taking a steady breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Mr. Williams—Sebastian—was at his desk, head down, pen moving across a folder like he was signing away nations. He didn’t notice me at first. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

 

I walked quietly across the room, heels muffled by the carpet, and set the cup down on the far edge of his desk. The soft clink of ceramic on wood was the only sound.

 

His head lifted.

 

Sharp eyes. Stoic face.

 

Cold.

 

"Did I ask for coffee?" His voice was smooth, unreadable.

 

I straightened my back, refusing to fidget. "No, sir. You didn’t."

 

He blinked slowly. His eyes flicked from my face to the cup. "Then what is it?"

 

"A coffee," I said, simply. "Made by me."

 

Silence stretched between us like a held breath.

 

"You’re not here to make coffee," he said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

 

"I know," I said softly. "But sometimes… people need something they didn’t ask for."

 

I wasn’t sure why I said that. Maybe I just wanted to do something kind, even if he wouldn’t accept it.

 

He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just looked at me like I was another file he hadn’t decided how to read yet. Then, just like that, he picked up his tablet.

 

"What’s on my schedule?"

 

Right. Back to business. I swallowed down the sting of being dismissed.

 

"You have a board call at ten, lunch with a client at one, and a video conference with the Singapore team at three. Your driver’s set to pick you up at five for the Lotte Hotel event."

 

He gave a short nod, already scrolling through something on his screen.

 

"That’s all. You can go."

 

I turned without another word, making my way to the door. But as I reached for the handle, it opened from the other side.

 

And in walked Violet Yu.

 

Tall. Immaculate. Dressed like the cameras were always watching her—and they probably were.

 

Her sunglasses slid down slightly as her eyes landed on me.

 

"Who are you?" she asked, voice dripping with disdain.

 

"Celeste Shawn," I answered. "Mr. Williams’ secretary."

 

She tilted her head. "Secretary. Of course."

 

Then her gaze shifted to the desk. More specifically—to the untouched coffee still sitting exactly where I’d placed it.

 

"You brought that?" she asked, lips curling.

 

I hesitated. "Yes."

 

She walked over, picked up the cup with two fingers like it was contaminated, and before I could even react—

 

She poured it.

 

Right onto the desk.

 

The rich, dark coffee spilled across the polished surface, soaking into papers and spreading fast.

 

"Oops," she said sweetly. "I thought it was cold already. Just like the women who bring it."

 

My breath caught in my throat.

 

"That wasn’t necessary," I managed.

 

"Neither is flirting with your boss." Her voice was all sugar and venom.

 

Sebastian’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. Sharp. Controlled. Dangerous.

 

"That’s enough, Violet."

 

She turned to him, unfazed, pouting like a spoiled child who always got her way.

 

"Oh, come on, Sebastian. A secretary with perfect timing and handmade coffee? It’s cute—really."

 

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at me either. His eyes were fixed on the desk—the papers soaked, the cup tipped on its side, steam still curling like smoke from a small fire. The only proof of the quiet gesture I shouldn’t have made.

 

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I’ll… call maintenance to clean that up."

 

But before I could step back, Violet’s voice rang out—sharp and mocking.

 

"Why bother? Let her clean it up. That’s what she’s here for, right?"

She smirked at me. "Might as well get used to it. You fit better holding a rag than a résumé anyway."

 

I stopped. I met her gaze—steady, unblinking. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t embarrassed. Just… done.

 

"I don’t mind cleaning up a mess," I said calmly. "I just don’t make a habit of cleaning up someone else’s tantrum."

 

Her smile faltered for half a second.

 

I stepped forward, about to grab some tissues from the side cabinet—not because she told me to, but because I didn’t need to stoop to her level.

 

But then—Sebastian’s voice cut in again. This time, lower. Colder.

 

"Don’t touch it, Ms. Shawn."

 

I looked at him. For the first time since I entered the room, his eyes were on me—dark, unreadable, but intense.

 

His next words were slow. Lethal.

 

"Let Violet clean it. She made the mess. She can deal with the consequences."

 

The silence that followed was suffocating.

 

Violet stared at him, stunned. "You’re joking."

 

"No," he said. "I don’t joke during work hours."

 

"But she’s your—"

 

"Secretary," he interrupted. "Not a maid. Not your emotional punching bag. And not someone you get to humiliate just because you’re bored."

 

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.

 

He turned to me, his voice softening just enough. "You can go."

 

I gave a slight nod. "Thank you, sir."

 

And I walked out—head high, heart steady, heels clicking with every step like punctuation to a sentence she didn’t get to finish.

 

She wanted me to feel small.

 

Instead, I reminded her who really looked pathetic.