All Chapters of THE CEO ALREADY KNEW : Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

The afternoon light is different after a confession.Softer, maybe. Or just more honest. The shadows stretch across the penthouse floor as the sun begins its slow descent toward the Seine. Celeste is sitting on the couch, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. She looks smaller than I've ever seen her — not fragile, but unarmored.I'm in the chair across from her. Not touching. Not yet."You wanted an apology," she says. "I gave you one.""I wanted the truth.""The truth is harder." She looks at me. "The truth is that I built an Oracle because I was drowning. Because after my mother died and my father showed me what he really was, I didn't know how to trust anyone ever again.""You were twenty-seven.""I was twenty-seven and alone and terrified." Her voice is flat, clinical — the voice she uses for boardrooms, not confessions. "My father had tried to kill me. The board was circling. Adrian was already building his network. And I had no one. No one I could trust. No one who

The rain doesn't stop for three days.It's as if Paris is trying to wash itself clean — the streets, the buildings, the memory of everything that happened in this penthouse. But some stains don't come out. Some things can't be washed away.I've been here for months. Slept in this bed. Cooked in this kitchen. Sat on this balcony watching the sunrise more times than I can count. But suddenly, every room feels staged. Every camera accusation disguised as architecture.Because the cameras are still here.Not active — Celeste swore she disconnected them, and I believe her. But they're there. Little black lenses staring from corners I never noticed before. Watching. Waiting. Silent witnesses to every lie I told and every truth I tried to hide.For the first time since moving in, I locked my bedroom door.---Celeste notices at breakfast.She doesn't mention it directly — just looks at me over her coffee with that quiet intensity that means she's cataloging, analyzing, trying to solve a prob

The hotel room feels smaller on the third day.I've rearranged the furniture twice. Moved the lamp from the nightstand to the desk. Turned the armchair to face the window instead of the bed. Small acts of control in a space that refuses to feel like mine.Celeste calls every evening. We talk about nothing — the weather, Mireille's therapy, a documentary she watched about octopuses. She doesn't ask when I'm coming back. Don't push. Just... stays on the line until one of us falls asleep.I should feel grateful.Instead, I feel suspended. Floating between what was and what might be, unable to land anywhere solid.Heartbreak apparently has excellent timing.Because on the third day, my phone buzzes with a call from a number I don't recognize. I almost ignore it — spam, probably, or a reporter looking for a quote. But something makes me answer."This is Vega.""Daphne." The voice is familiar in the worst possible way. Low. Calm. Calculating. "It's been a while."My blood runs cold."Adrian

The café is in the Marais, the same one where I met Adrian months ago. Different table, different purpose, but the irony isn't lost on me. Everything comes full circle in this city. Every lie eventually leads back to the truth.Emilia is already there when I arrive.She looks different — softer, somehow, than the woman I ran with across borders and cons. Her hair is shorter. Her face is less guarded. She's wearing a dress — a dress, Emilia Torres, who swore she'd never wear anything that didn't have pockets."You look different," I say, sliding into the seat across from her."So do you." She studies my face. "Happier. Even with everything.""Everything is a lot.""Everything is always a lot with you."The waiter comes. We order coffee. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but careful — the way silences are when two people have too much history and not enough words."You testified," I say."I testified.""Against Adrian.""Against everyone who deserved it." She wraps her hands arou

The morning after the board meeting, Celeste is in the kitchen by 6 a.m.I know because I wake to an empty bed — not unusual anymore, but today it feels different. Heavier. I find her standing at the counter, staring at the espresso machine like she's forgotten how it works. She's still in her nightclothes — one of my shirts, the white one — and her hair is loose around her face.She thinks no one notices when she presses trembling fingers to the kitchen counter.But I noticed.Unfortunately for both of us, I notice everything about her now.---"Celeste."She doesn't turn around."You're up early.""So are you.""I couldn't sleep.""Neither could I."I walk toward her, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to touch, but not touching. The air between us is thick with everything we're not saying."The board," I say."The board.""Durand's ultimatum.""Forty-eight hours." Her voice is flat. "Less now.""Have you decided what you're going to do?"She finally turns. Her face is composed