All Chapters of THE CEO ALREADY KNEW : Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

The house is too quiet after Oak.I notice it in the mornings most of all — the absence of his soft breathing from the corner of the bedroom, the missing weight against my leg when I make coffee, the way Celeste still turns to look at the spot on the couch where he used to curl. Grief is like that. It doesn't announce itself. It just... settles. Into the spaces between words. Into the pauses between heartbeats.Celeste doesn't talk about it.She just... continues. Waters the garden. Answer letters. Plans the next season at the residency. But I catch her standing at the window sometimes, staring at the fig tree where four dogs are buried now, her hand pressed against the glass."You're thinking," I say."I'm remembering.""That's the same thing."---Mireille calls in November.The foster children are settling in — slowly, messily, the way children do when they've been hurt and are learning to trust. There have been tantrums, tears, sleepless nights. There have also been breakthroughs.

Sofia says her first word on a Tuesday.Not "Mama" — that would be too expected. Not "Dada" — also expected. She's sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by wooden blocks, when she picks up a red square and holds it toward Celeste."Oak," she says.Celeste freezes.The dog has been gone for over a year. The grave under the fig tree has settled, covered in ivy and wildflowers. We don't talk about Oak the way we used to — not because we've forgotten, but because grief has softened into something closer to gratitude.But Sofia never met Oak.She wasn't born until months after he died."Oak," Sofia says again, pointing at the red block.Celeste looks at me. I look at Celeste."Where did you hear that word?" Celeste asks, kneeling beside her daughter.Sofia shrugs — a baby shrug, more a wiggle than anything else — and goes back to her blocks.---"She couldn't have known him," Celeste says that night, after Sofia is asleep."I know.""But she said his name.""I know.""What does that mea

Sofia is five when she asks about the stones.We're in the garden, late spring, the fig tree heavy with new leaves. She's been collecting rocks from the beach, lining them up on the wall, giving each one a name. But she stops when she reaches the fig tree, where the four stones are lined in a row — Orwell, Pippin, Fig, Oak."What are these for?" she asks.Celeste kneels beside her."They're for the dogs. The ones who lived here before you.""Where did they go?""They died. We buried them here."Sofia processes this, her small face serious."Are they still here?""Yes. In the ground. In the garden. In the flowers.""Do they miss us?"Celeste is quiet for a moment."I think they're just happy to be remembered."---That night, after Sofia is asleep, Celeste stands at the window."You're thinking," I say."I'm wondering.""About what?""About what she'll remember. About what we're passing on.""Love. That's what we're passing on.""Is that enough?""It's everything."---The residency in

Sofia is eight and a half when she asks if she can write a letter to her birth mother.Not a real letter — she doesn't have an address, doesn't even know the woman's name. Just a practice letter. Something to put her thoughts in order.Celeste handles it the way she handles everything now — patiently, honestly, without shying away from the hard parts."What would you say?" Celeste asks.Sofia thinks about it."I would say thank you. For having me. For choosing life.""Anything else?""I would say I'm okay. That I have a good family. I'm happy."Celeste's eyes glisten."That's beautiful.""It's just true.""That's the same thing."---The practice letter is written on pink paper, covered in stickers. Sofia seals it in an envelope, addresses it to "My Birth Mother, Somewhere in the World," and places it in a drawer."When I'm grown up," she says, "I'm going to find her. And I'm going to give her this letter.""That's a long time from now.""I'll wait.""That's what love does."---The r

Sofia is twelve when she stops holding my hand.Not dramatically — just one day, we're walking on the beach, and I reach for her, and she pulls away. Gently. Almost apologetically."I'm not a little kid anymore," she says."I know.""You don't have to hold my hand.""I know."But I keep walking beside her, close enough to catch her if she falls.---Celeste notices the shift.She's always been more observant than me, more attuned to the small changes that signal something larger. She watches Sofia with the same quiet attention she once gave to boardrooms and hostile takeovers — but softer now. Less about control. More about witnessing."She's pulling away," Celeste says."That's what adolescents do.""I know. But it's hard.""It's supposed to be hard."---The residency in France is quiet this season.Celeste has handed over most of the day-to-day operations to a younger director — a former resident, someone who understands the vision without needing to be told. She still visits, stil