All Chapters of THE CEO ALREADY KNEW : Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

227 Chapters

Chapter 151: The Winter of Small Things

The second winter in Portugal is colder than the first.Not the bone-deep cold of Paris in February — that was a cold that demanded attention, that forced you inside, that made you grateful for thick coats and warm fires. This is a gentler cold. The kind that settles into the corners of rooms and reminds you that the world is still turning, even when you've stopped running.Celeste has taken to wearing my sweaters.All of them. I own four good sweaters now — a luxury I never allowed myself before her — and she cycles through them like they're hers. Which, I suppose, they are. What's mine is hers. What's hers is mine. That's what marriage means, or so I'm learning."You're wearing my blue sweater," I say one morning."I'm wearing our blue sweater.""I bought it before I met you.""And now you're sharing it. That's called growth.""That's called theft.""Same thing."She grins, unrepentant, and pours herself another cup of coffee.---The dogs are curled together on the couch.Orwell, t

Chapter 152: The Courage to Be Ordinary

February arrives with rain.Not the dramatic storms of November — just a steady, persistent drizzle that turns the garden to mud and keeps the dogs indoors. Celeste stands at the window, watching the water streak down the glass, her reflection a ghost in the gray light."You're thinking," I say."I'm watching.""Same thing.""No." She turns to face me. "Thinking is what I do when I'm trying to solve a problem. Watching is what I do when I'm trying to be present.""When did you become so wise?""When I stopped trying to control things I couldn't."---The publisher calls in March.They want a second book. Not a sequel to the memoir — something new. Something about the years between then and now. The quiet years. The years no one writes about because nothing dramatic happens."I don't know if I have another book in me," I tell Celeste."You have dozens. You just haven't written them yet.""How do you know?""Because you're a writer. Writers write. Even when they're scared. Especially wh

Chapter 153: The Grace of Letting Go

The first sign that something is changing comes in December.Not the dramatic kind of change — no letters from the past, no threats reemerging, no midnight calls from people who should be in prison. Something quieter. The kind of change that happens inside a person before it shows itself to the world.Celeste wakes one morning and doesn't get out of bed.Not because she's sad. Not because she's sick. Just... because. She lies there, watching the light shift across the ceiling, her hand resting on the pillow where my head used to be."You're still here," I say, coming back from the kitchen."I'm still here.""You're not moving.""I'm thinking."I set the coffee on the nightstand, sit beside her."About what?""About time. About how much we have left. About whether we're spending it the right way.""Is there a right way?""I don't know." She turns to look at me. "But I'd like to find out."---The conversation lingers for days.Not an argument — just an opening. A door neither of us kne

Chapter 154: The Shape of Forever

The third year in Portugal is the one where time stops feeling like something to measure.Not because nothing happens — things happen. The garden grows. The dogs age. Celeste's paintings find their way into a gallery in Lisbon, then Porto, then a small showing in Madrid. My essays get collected into a second book, then a third. We travel, but always come home. We fight, but always make up.But the days blur together in a way that used to terrify me and now feels like grace.Because I'm not counting anymore.I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop.I'm just... living.---Celeste wakes before me on our anniversary.Not the legal one — the real one. The beach ceremony with Emilia officiating and the dog in a bow tie. Four years now. Four years of choosing each other, of staying when staying was hard, of learning that love is not a feeling but a practice.She's standing at the window, watching the sunrise."You're up early," I say."So are you.""I could smell the coffee.""You could

Chapter 155: The Weight of Witness

October ends. November begins. The days shorten, and the garden prepares for sleep. Celeste's talk in Lisbon fades into memory, but something lingers — a residue, a shift. She's different now. Lighter, maybe. Or just more present.I catch her standing at the window less often. She paints in the mornings instead of the afternoons. She laughs more easily, the way she used to before the cameras and the logs and the years of survival."You're staring again," she says."I'm admiring.""You're hovering.""Same thing."She sets down her brush. The canvas is half-finished — a portrait of the garden in autumn, gold and brown and fading green."I've been thinking about testimony," she says."What about it?""About how it changes you. Standing in front of people, telling the truth. Not the version you've been telling yourself — the real version.""Is that what your talk was? Testimony?""I think so. I didn't realize it at the time. But yes."---The word stays with me.Testimony. I gave mine in

Chapter 156: The Art of Receiving

The morning after the new year, I wake to find Celeste already in the garden.Not working — just standing there, wrapped in my blue sweater, her breath fogging in the cold air. The garden is dormant, brown and sleeping, but she's looking at it like it owes her something."You're going to freeze," I say from the porch."I'm thinking.""You can think inside.""I can't think inside. Inside has walls."I grab a blanket, walk to her, wrap it around both of us."What are you thinking about?""Seeds.""Seeds?""The ones we'll plant in spring. The ones that are sleeping underground right now, waiting for warmth." She leans against me. "I used to think waiting was passive. Something you did when you couldn't act.""And now?""Now I think waiting is active. The seeds are doing something. Growing roots. Preparing. Just because I can't see it doesn't mean nothing is happening."---The observation stays with me.Not about gardening — about us. About the years we've spent here, in this house, buil

Chapter 157: The Inheritance

The winter of our fifth year in Portugal is the quietest yet.Not empty — just still. The kind of stillness that comes after years of restlessness, when the body finally believes it's safe. Celeste sleeps through the night now. No pacing. No staring at windows. Just the slow, steady rhythm of someone who's stopped waiting for disaster.I woke up before her on a Tuesday in January.The sky is gray, the ocean rough. Orwell is curled at the foot of the bed, his breathing shallow. He's twelve now — old for a dog his size. The vet says he's comfortable, but comfortable isn't the same as well.Pippin is on the floor, watching his brother with the kind of attention that breaks my heart."You're awake," Celeste says, her voice thick with sleep."Couldn't sleep.""Orwell?""Orwell."She sits up, runs a hand over his fur. He opens his eyes, wags his tail weakly."Not yet," she says. Like she's negotiating."Not yet," I agree.---The days pass.We do the small things — coffee, breakfast, a slow

Chapter 158: The Language of Hands

The spring after Orwell dies is the quietest I've ever known.Not silent — the garden is loud with birdsong, the ocean never stops its slow percussion against the shore. But the quiet is inside. A space where his absence lives, curled like he used to curl at the foot of the bed.Celeste doesn't talk about it.She just... moves differently. Slower. The way you move when you're carrying something fragile.Pippin stays close to her, his small body pressed against her leg, her hip, her chest when she sleeps. He's always been her dog, but now he's something more. A witness. A reminder that grief is not a solo act.---The garden blooms.Celeste tends it with the same careful attention she's always given it, but I notice she spends more time near the fig tree. The stone with Orwell's name is weathered now, the paint fading. She doesn't repaint it."He's not the stone," she says when I ask."He's not in the garden either.""No." She sits in the grass, pulls a weed. "He's everywhere. And that

Chapter 159: The Morning After the End

I wake to the sound of rain.Not the gentle drizzle of spring — the hard, insistent rain of winter, the kind that drums against the windows and makes the world outside disappear. Celeste is still asleep, her hand on my chest, her breathing slow. Pippin is curled at her feet, his small body a warm weight against her legs.I don't move.I used to think mornings like this were wasted time. Hours I could have spent planning, executing, staying ahead of the people who wanted to destroy me. Now I understand that the opposite of destruction is not survival. It's stillness. The ability to lie in bed while the rain falls, while the woman you love sleeps, while the dogs dream of chasing things they'll never catch.This is not wasted time.This is the point.---Celeste wakes slowly.Her eyes open, unfocused at first, then finding mine. She blinks, smiles — that small, private smile that's just for me."Morning," she says."Morning.""The rain.""The rain.""I love it.""I know."She stretches,

Chapter 160: The Art of Holding On

The summer of our seventh year in Portugal is the hottest yet.The garden droops in the afternoon sun, flowers closing their faces against the heat. Celeste waters in the early mornings and late evenings, moving slowly through the rows with a hose that Pippin attacks like it's a snake. He's ten now — old for a small dog, his muzzle gray, his eyes cloudy with the beginnings of cataracts. But he still chases the water, still barks at the mailman, still curls against Celeste's chest every night like he's protecting her from something.We're all getting older.I notice it in the mirror — the lines around my eyes, the gray threading through my hair. Celeste too. She carries her age like she carried everything else: quietly, without complaint, as if it doesn't matter.But it matters.Every day matters now. Not because we're running out of time — because we finally understand what time is for.---"You're brooding," Celeste says, joining me on the porch."I'm reflecting.""You're squinting a

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