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Celeste’s POVThe day started with a calm that felt almost unreal after everything that had happened.Ryan was resting in his penthouse, being tended to by a private doctor, and the texts from the medical team said he was healing well.Every update felt like a small victory in a long war, a reassurance that the worst was behind us, even if the memories of the events at Rosemary Atelier were still raw in my mind. I had expected to feel relief, but instead, my chest was heavy with anticipation, waiting for the next curveball life seemed determined to throw my way.I was in my apartment, organizing my notes and sketches for a new collection. Even after all the chaos, Rosemary Atelier’s work didn’t stop for tragedy, and the creative process was something I clung to. It grounded me.But my focus was broken when I heard the softest knock at the door. I knew that sound too well. Grace’s knock was hesitant, tentative, even more so now that she was back from wherever she had been hiding herself

Celeste’s POVThe first time I stepped back into Rosemary Atelier after Andre’s death, my body reacted before my mind did.The glass doors slid open with the same soft sigh they always had, but the sound scraped along my nerves like a blade.My heels clicked against the marble floor, each step too loud, too deliberate, as if the building itself was listening. The lobby smelled the same, polish, metal, faint citrus from the cleaning solution, but familiarity didn’t bring comfort. It only sharpened the edges of memory.Every hallway felt narrower than I remembered.Every shadow lingered a second too long.I caught myself scanning corners automatically, measuring distances, noting exits. The part of me that had once moved through this place with ownership and ease now moved like prey pretending to be human.Rachel looked up from her bench when she saw me. Her smile flickered, fragile but sincere. Jenny stood near her, clutching a tablet too tightly. Neither of them said anything at first.

Celeste’s POVThe spiral didn’t begin all at once. It crept in the way mold did, quiet, insidious, blooming in corners I thought I had already scrubbed clean.Another board meeting ended, chairs scraping softly against marble floors, voices lowering into polite murmurs as people filed out.I stayed seated longer than necessary, fingers locked together so tightly my knuckles ached. The agenda had been mundane. Logistics. Committees. Future-facing language meant to reassure markets. Nothing about violence. Nothing about blood.And yet I felt it everywhere.By the time I returned to Rosemary Atelier, the building felt wrong.Not hostile in the sharp, obvious way it had the day Andre died, but uneasy, like a place pretending to be whole again too soon.Every reflection in the glass caught me off guard. Every unexpected sound made my shoulders tighten.I walked the halls slowly, heels echoing, my breath too loud in my own ears.I kept expecting to see something, red smeared against white wa

Celeste’s POVI sat stiffly in the polished chairs of the IJA boardroom, trying to anchor myself to the table in front of me.The air felt heavy, metallic, as if the tension itself had weight, pressing down on my shoulders. Maximilian wasn’t here, thankfully, but I could feel the echoes of his control lingering like a shadow in the corners of the room.Whispers floated in hushed tones as the chairman pro tempore cleared his throat and began explaining the process.A blind selection, he said. Names would be drawn at random. Those chosen would begin campaigning for the interim Chairman position, presenting themselves to the board, attending gatherings, cultivating influence and allies.He framed it as a civil, elegant procedure, a chance for leadership to emerge “naturally,” free from coercion. But I knew better.Politics in this room had always been a quiet battle, a game of poised smiles and knife-edged words.I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying to steady my racing heartb

Celeste’s POVThe morning after the rooftop gathering, the news hit like a tidal wave.Maximilian Edwards was no longer the Chairman of the International Jewelry Association.The headlines weren’t subtle. Trade publications, business journals, even the less reputable online tabloids had splashed the announcement across their sites.Every title carried the same weight, the same bluntness: Maximilian Edwards Ousted from IJA.I read the articles twice, slowly, deliberately, as if seeing it in print made it more real.Then I let myself breathe.It was surreal. Months of strategy, months of navigating threats, months of keeping my head down while Maximilian flexed power and influence, I had been present for the whispers, the subtle shifts in the boardroom, the tension threading through every meeting, but nothing compared to the raw clarity of the moment.The man who had held so much control over our industry, over my life, over Ryan’s life, over the people around him, had finally lost it.A