2. Dangerous Glances

The next morning, I woke with a strange ache in my chest. Not the usual post-travel exhaustion. Not hunger or caffeine withdrawal. Something else. Something that had begun the second Celine’s gaze landed on me.

I told myself it was a crush. A fleeting, stupid, absolutely forbidden crush that I had to squash before it grew into something catastrophic. But as I stretched and ran a hand through my messy hair, I realized I had no idea how to do that.

Celine was everywhere. In the kitchen making tea, in the living room checking floral arrangements, even lingering by the staircase as if she had nothing better to do than watch me move through my morning. Every glance, every brush of her sleeve past mine, made my pulse stutter. I hated it. Loved it. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“You’re awake early,” she said, appearing beside me in the kitchen. Her presence hit me like a warm tide, curling around me, pulling me close without touching. She leaned casually against the counter, one hand cradling her mug. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, found mine, and I felt my knees go a fraction weak.

“Yeah,” I muttered, trying to sound normal. “Jet lag. Or anxiety. Or both.”

She smirked—small, knowing, devastating. “Or me.”

I choked on my own heartbeat. Did she say that out loud? Or did I imagine it? Her gaze lingered, intense and intimate. I wanted—no, needed—to look away, to retreat into my hoodie and my own space, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

She stirred her tea slowly, deliberately, watching me, and for a moment, it felt like the room had shrunk until it was just us. The quiet hum of the city outside, the clatter of the coffee mug, everything faded.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I finally whispered, though my voice shook. Not because she scared me—because I wanted her too much.

“Why not?” Her voice was soft, teasing, dangerous. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

I swallowed hard, trying to steady the thrum in my chest. “Because… because you’re my sister’s fiancée.”

Her laugh was quiet, musical, teasing. She took a deliberate step closer. I felt the heat radiating from her, smelled the faint trace of her perfume—citrus and something warmer, deeper, addictive. My hands twitched. My mouth wanted to form words I couldn’t.

“And yet,” she said, tilting her head, “here you are. Talking to me. Not running.”

The words were a challenge. A tease. A confession wrapped in danger. My stomach rolled. My body betrayed me as it always did around her. I wanted to close the gap, wanted to reach for her hand, wanted to let her see the part of me I never showed anyone.

Instead, I mumbled, “I should get going. Help with wedding stuff.”

Celine smiled faintly, like she knew I was lying to myself. “Suit yourself,” she said softly. “But if you ever want to stop pretending… you know where to find me.”

And just like that, she left. But the heat lingered, curling in my chest like a fire I couldn’t put out. I tried to focus on folding the napkins for the rehearsal dinner, arranging them in neat piles, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw her again—leaning against the counter, watching me, smirking like she’d already won.

By the time Aaliyah stormed into the kitchen, fussing over table linens and flower petals, I was shaking, trying to act normal.

“Are you helping or just standing there like a statue?” my sister snapped.

“Helping,” I muttered, forcing myself to move, forcing my pulse to slow, forcing my hands to obey. But Celine’s shadow lingered in every corner, in every glance I stole, in every thought I tried desperately to push away.

Later that night, I found myself wandering the empty garden alone. The fairy lights cast a golden glow over the bushes and flowers, just like the night before. I didn’t know what I was looking for—escape, clarity, sanity—but I wasn’t surprised when I found Celine leaning against the fountain, sipping from a cup of tea.

“Thought I’d find you here,” she said softly, eyes flicking up to mine. “This garden is quiet. A good place to think… or get into trouble.”

I swallowed, heat climbing my neck. “I’m not here to...”

“You are,” she interrupted, stepping closer. Her presence was overwhelming. The warmth radiating from her body made my pulse stutter, my breath catch, and my chest ache with something I couldn’t name. “You’re always here. You can’t hide it, you know.”

I felt it then, raw and unrelenting, the ache that had been growing since the moment I first saw her. My hands itched to touch her, to trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the way her sleeve brushed against her wrist with the faintest electric friction. Every part of me wanted to collapse into her, to feel the heat of her skin, the weight of her presence pressed against mine, even if it meant stepping over boundaries I wasn’t supposed to cross.

Her eyes bore into me, dark and knowing, stripping away the layers I had carefully built around myself. Desire roared through me, sharp and dizzying. I wanted her, not just to kiss, not just to touch, but to know her, to consume her, to let every dangerous, forbidden part of myself unravel in her presence.

And I knew… she wanted me too.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to deny it. But the truth was clear, raw, and dangerous: I couldn’t stop wanting her. Not when she looked at me like that, not when her voice wrapped around me like silk, not when every instinct in my body screamed touch her, need her, want her.

She smiled, faint and teasing. “Do you know what’s funny?”

I shook my head, heart hammering.

“That you think you could ever stop feeling this,” she whispered, taking another deliberate step closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her. “Even if you tried, even if it’s wrong, even if it destroys everything.”

I froze, overwhelmed by desire, fear, and the impossible truth between us.

Impossible, and yet… electric.

And I wanted her more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.