THE CEO ALREADY KNEW のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 101 - チャプター 110

The board meeting is called for 9 a.m.Celeste walks into Laurent Axis headquarters looking flawless. Untouchable. The kind of woman who makes grown men check their reflections before speaking to her. Her suit is charcoal gray, severe, the armor she's worn for seven years. Her hair is pulled back. Her makeup is perfect.I stand in the back of the room, near the door, where I can see everyone.The board members file in. Same faces. Same hunger. But something is different today. They look at Celeste differently — not like hyenas circling a wounded lion, but like shareholders watching their investment burn.The white-haired woman from before — Marguerite's mother, I've learned, though no one mentions it — takes her seat at the far end of the table."Shall we begin?" Celeste says.She walks to the head of the table. Her heels click against the marble. Her posture is perfect. Her expression is calm.Then I caught the tremor in her hand.It's subtle — just a slight shake as she reaches for

The elevator rises slowly, like it knows we're in no hurry to reach the top.Celeste stands beside me, her hand in mine, her breathing deliberately even. Hana is behind us, checking her weapon, her earpiece, the small camera she'll use to document everything Adrian says."You're quiet," Celeste says."I'm thinking.""About?""About how we got here." I look at the floor numbers climbing — 4, 5, 6. "Six months ago, I was sitting in a bar in Barcelona, counting the money I had left and wondering if I should take the job.""Adrian's job.""Adrian's job." I turn to face her. "He said it would be simple. Infiltrate. Seduce. Extract. Three months, maybe four. Then disappear.""You're not very good at disappearing.""I'm not very good at staying, either." I squeeze her hand. "But I'm learning."The elevator doors open.---Room 712 looks the same as before.Same door. Same shadows. Same feeling of walking into something you can't see the edges of.Hana positions herself near the stairwell, ou

The doctor says stress, exhaustion, and untreated pressure. I'm standing in the doorway of Mireille's hotel room, watching Celeste hover at the foot of the bed like she's afraid to get too close. The doctor packs his bag, rattles off instructions—fluids, rest, a follow-up with a specialist in Paris—and then he's gone, and it's just the three of us. Celeste says she's fine. The way her voice shakes says otherwise. "Mireille," Celeste starts, then stops. Clears her throat. "I've arranged a private jet. We can leave whenever you're ready." Mireille doesn't look at her. She's staring at the ceiling, her hands folded on her stomach, her face pale against the white pillows. "I'm not going to Paris." "Mireille—" "I said I'm not going." Her voice is flat, exhausted, the voice of someone who's been making decisions alone for too long. "You can't just show up after three years and expect me to follow you home." "I'm not expecting anything." "Then why are you here?" "Because

The city keeps moving outside while Celeste sleeps for what feels like the first time in years.I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, watching her. The penthouse is quiet — not the tense silence of waiting, but something softer. Something that feels like peace.Mireille went to bed an hour ago, exhausted from her first real day of freedom. Hana checked in, reported nothing new, disappeared to wherever she goes when she's not guarding billionaires. And Celeste—Celeste fell asleep on the couch while we were watching some documentary about deep-sea creatures.I carried her to bed.She didn't wake up.That's how tired she is. The woman who wakes at the slightest sound, who sleeps with one eye open, who's been running on adrenaline and ambition for seven years—she didn't even stir when I lifted her.She sleeps like someone expecting war.But tonight, she just looks like someone who's finally safe.---I should leave.Go to my own room. Give her space. Let her wake up alone the

The morning starts like any other. Coffee. Sunlight. The distant sound of Mireille's shower running down the hall. Celeste is at the kitchen island, reviewing documents on her tablet, her reading glasses perched on her nose. She looks almost domestic — soft sweater, bare feet, hair pulled back in a loose knot. I watch her from the doorway. "You're staring again," she says without looking up. "I'm admiring." "Same thing." "Not even close." She sets down the tablet, removes her glasses, and looks at me. Really looks. The way she does when she's about to say something she's been rehearsing. "I don't like losing control," she says. The words come out of nowhere. Quiet. Careful. Like she's testing how they feel in her mouth. "Okay," I say, walking toward her. "That's it? Just 'okay'?" "What do you want me to say?" "I don't know." She stands, moves to the window. "I've been thinking about it. About why I built Oracle. Why I pushed everyone away. Why I've been so afraid of... th